


The Sorcerer's Apprentice

by Muriel_Perun



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Murder, Not partner rape, Plot, Rape, Revenge, Romance, Sexual Torture, Spycraft, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:42:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4470998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muriel_Perun/pseuds/Muriel_Perun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sloan comes back to coerce Julian Bashir into working with Section 31 again, while Bashir and Garak conspire to thwart his plans. But Sloan is determined to have his way. Garak's history with Sloan goes much deeper than Bashir can imagine--and leads them into a fight to the death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story first appears in KR's zine _No Holds Barred_, No. 21

It was very late, the end of a long day. As he heard the door to his quarters hiss closed softly behind him, Garak wondered if he were doomed to continue forever in this monotonous and indistinguishable round of days, brightened only by a precious few interludes: the rare times when Sisko asked him for assistance—when would that happen again?—an interesting intrigue, or an all‑too‑brief lunch or cup of tea with Dr. Bashir.

He set about preparing a small meal, for he had worked hard this day, as usual, repairing other people’s clothing, bargaining with merchants and customers, flattering the bored mates of visitors who had business on the station. Many of the station inhabitants, the doctor included, thought that Garak’s days were passed in pleasant conversation and flirtation, while his nights were still devoted to intrigues they could only vaguely imagine. In fact, he worked hard to put forward an image of easy prosperity with an undertone of mystery, when in reality his days were filled with drudgery and his nights, often sleepless, were spent reading whatever interesting novels he could get his hands on.

He set down his plate to one side of the computer terminal and sat, with a sigh, in the comfortable chair before it—one of the small pleasures he allowed himself these days, easing his body while his mind cast around for things to keep it occupied and his powers atrophied day by day. In the old days, when he was important, he would not have needed to ease his bones. Then discomfort sharpened his senses; now it merely heightened his suffering.

Garak took a bite of food, then another. It wasn’t bad. He chose his recipes carefully from a collection he had been gathering for several years now. Some were old Cardassian favorites, and others had been introduced to him by Dr. Bashir. These were predictably eclectic—the good doctor liked to see himself as an adventurer assailing the unknown with relish. Garak enjoyed the implications of that pun—relish was a Terran condiment, and most eager Terrans like the doctor seemed ready to gobble up the universe rather than meet it on equal ground. 

Garak ate slowly but steadily, savoring his glass of juice. He ought to go straight to bed after his meal, read a few pages of that book he was in the middle of—what was it called? He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Really, that novel was worse than most. Usually he could at least remember their names. He put down his fork. _You aren’t very good at self‑deception,_ he admonished himself. _You know what you want to do now, but you need to take a day off, to show that it isn’t necessary for you. If it becomes necessary, then it becomes an obsession. Obsessions are dangerous. You shouldn’t—_

But did it matter after all? Was he still an Obsidian Order operative who needed to keep himself in peak condition? In his present pathetic state, couldn’t he let himself wallow a bit in a fine chair, good food, or even a beautiful image? He laughed at himself derisively, for, as he knew very well, his fascination with the beautiful young doctor had much less to do with aesthetics than with lust. _Enough,_ he muttered, pushing aside his plate. _Do it. Just do it and then you can sleep. Worry about it another time._

Trying to keep his fingers steady, he brought up a program and stripped away the encryption codes carefully, one by one. He had designed this program not quite a month ago. It was part of a difficult project he had assigned himself nearly half a year before, designed to keep his mind trim and occupied. The programming hadn’t been the hardest part—first he had had to scour the station for a certain variety of old Cardassian equipment that had somehow been overlooked by the diligent Miles O’Brien. Everything that had escaped notice had either been very small or heavily damaged, or both. Most of it was either not what he needed or was damaged beyond repair. His search focused on the habitat ring, on certain quarters that had formerly belonged to Cardassians or guests about whose status there was some doubt. Dukat or someone working for the Obsidian Order had therefore placed in their rooms a small, nearly undetectable device meant to monitor their actions and communications. In order to recover these specialized transmitters, Garak had broken into various quarters throughout the habitat ring, getting what he needed and leaving no trace of his presence.

When, after much painstaking work that stretched the limits of his engineering knowledge, he had finally been able to reconstruct one of these devices, he had adapted it to his own purposes, which were no longer focused on espionage. He did not place the transmitter in Sisko’s room, or Kira’s, but, waiting until a medical conference had called Dr. Bashir away from the station for a few days, he placed it in the doctor’s bedroom, concealed in a light fixture installed when the station was built. If anyone found it, they would imagine it had been there for the life of the station and was no longer functional, but they would be wrong.

Most of the day shift of Star Fleet personnel had gone to bed by now, and Quark was probably counting up his ill‑gotten gains behind the bar. The infirmary was staffed by nurses who watched over the few long‑term patients and tended the night’s small emergencies as best they could. Dr. Bashir usually enjoyed the luxury of a full evening and night to himself, which he might spend partly in Quark’s, partly in bed—alone or accompanied, as his luck had run. Occasionally he stayed up for a while to read or work by himself, but sleep usually overcame him fairly early. Garak knew these things because he had been making observations of the doctor. At first, he had looked only once a week or so, marveling at his own technical prowess. But lately he was allowing himself to get sucked into this game. He enjoyed looking at the doctor, and he enjoyed it much too much.

Sometimes he watched the doctor sleep, tracing the lines of his body by starlight. A few times he had tuned in while the doctor was dressing, and had caressed himself while watching, ignoring his feelings of guilt. Once he had even observed the doctor making love to some Bajoran woman who had spent a week on the station. Surprisingly, that was one experience Garak did not care to repeat. The sight of Bashir in passion, touching and being touched, raised Garak to a pitch of fury that left him in a daze for a week, unable to concentrate on his work. In fact, having the device increased his misery, rather than relieving it, but for all that Garak continued to watch.

What would he find this night? He doubted that the doctor had a guest. When he had seen Bashir in the replimat, the doctor had been alone, and Ezri, his occasional bed companion, was on night shift this week. Steeling himself, he activated his device.

Bashir’s room was dark except for the usual starlight. He lay under the covers, barely visible. Garak relaxed. This was what he liked best, just seeing the doctor at rest. Knowing he was there alone made Garak feel as if there were still a chance for him, someday, to make the young man come to him.

A brief disturbance at the left edge of the image drew Garak’s eye. Was the device malfunctioning already? He’d have a terrible a time repairing it—he’d have to break into Bashir’s quarters during the day, and that was very risky. Or maybe it was a software glitch. He was preparing to run the diagnostic when he saw something that made his heart nearly stop in his chest. 

A dark‑clothed figure walked into view, observing Bashir’s sleeping body. Garak increased the resolution, straining to see who it was. What could he do? If he signaled the intruder’s presence to Odo, then the uncomfortable question would arise of how he knew. He would wait a moment to see what the visitor wanted, and then, if necessary, he would help Bashir himself.

On the screen, Bashir sat bolt upright in bed and called for lights. Bashir and Garak saw him at the same time.

“Sloan!” Bashir exclaimed, the fear obvious in his voice.

“Sloan,” Garak whispered, clenching his fists. Waves of hatred and despair washed through him. That bastard. Hadn’t he already done enough to humiliate Bashir, to ruin Garak’s life?

“Ah, Dr. Bashir,” Sloan said heartily, taking a seat facing the bed, “I’m terribly sorry to disturb your sleep, but Section 31 has need of you again.”

Bashir rubbed his eyes and smoothed back his tousled hair. “I thought there _was_ no Section 31,” he said bitterly. “I thought you were playing dead, Sloan, and good riddance.”

Sloan laughed out loud. “I can always count on you to speak frankly,” he said. Garak noted that Sloan held a short, thick rod in one hand and worked it methodically with his fingers as he spoke. “In fact, that’s exactly what I count on you for. Come, doctor, the Federation needs your services.” Garak enlarged the frame to focus on the rod in Sloan’s hand but couldn’t make out what it was.

“Sloan, you snake,” Bashir spat, “there’s nothing I wouldn’t sacrifice to help the Federation. But I won’t do anything to advance your goals. I’m not at all sure that you and the Federation have the same interests.”

“How right you are, doctor,” murmured Garak, “but this might not be the best moment to speak your mind.”

Sloan’s fixed smile ebbed away. “Nevertheless, we do, doctor. I’ve devoted my life to saving this great alliance. I believe it’s the noblest cause I could espouse. But I’m not here to convince you of anything except that I have a job that only you can do.”

“Only I?” Bashir sneered. “Surely there are—”

“—many others who have your medical skills and the heightened senses and strength that come from genetic engineering? No, doctor, I’m afraid not. Most other genetically engineered people are too unstable to trust, and none are doctors. It’s you I need, and only you. Trust me.”

“Trust you?” Bashir laughed contemptuously. “Sorry, Sloan,” he said, “I won’t do your job. And anyway, as I recall, last time you wanted me for my innocent heart, not for my genetically engineered mind.” Bashir’s lips twisted into a sardonic smile, full of hatred. “Thanks to you, I’m afraid my heart isn’t so innocent anymore. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to get back to sleep.”

Sloan rose from his chair and stepped towards the bed. “I know how to get to you, doctor. Don’t underestimate me. If I want you, I’ll have you.”

Throwing off the covers, Bashir got out of bed and stood to face him. “No, you won’t,” he said distinctly, in a tone of brave determination that made Garak’s chest tighten with dread. Despite the fear in his heart, and his admiration for Bashir’s foolish courage, Garak didn’t fail to notice that Bashir still wore those same absurd blue pajamas he had always worn.

Sloan smiled again. “Well, then,” he said, making a beckoning gesture with one hand that Bashir didn’t understand, “we’ll see, won’t we?” Two large men, dressed in Section 31 leathers, materialized in the room.

_No!_ Garak thought in silent agony. _I know him and his methods too well. Doctor, please humor him, seem to give in. Otherwise...._ Garak wanted to take up a weapon and rush to Bashir’s defense, but if he did they were both dead. He stayed where he was, fighting a silent battle with himself. _Remember,_ he chided himself, _Sloan won’t kill him this time, or even badly injure him. He just wants to frighten him, give him a taste of physical humiliation._ Somehow that didn’t make Garak feel much better.

The leather men seemed to know what was expected of them. Working together, they took hold of Bashir and stretched him out over the bed, face down, with his legs hanging awkwardly off the end. Sloan walked into Garak’s view holding a long wand that he telescoped out of the rod he had toyed with.

“I swear I will kill you this time,” Garak muttered, understanding what was about to happen. “I should have killed you years ago for what you did to me.” He seethed with hatred for the man who thought so little of Bashir that he arrived when he pleased to inflict a casual humiliation and then disappear again. _Sloan, my nemesis, my downfall. The only one who was ever able to use me against myself. I have the advantage now. I’m watching you, and you don’t know it._

“Refusing my orders has a certain price,” Sloan was saying, swishing the long wand loudly through the air so that Bashir tried to turn to see what it was. “You will pay that price as many times as you must before you obey. So let me ask you formally, doctor—will you do my little job?”

“No,” Bashir said angrily, “and if you don’t let me go I’ll report this to Star Fleet.”

“Report it to anyone you like,” Sloan said, smiling coldly, “and then you can describe exactly what I did to you, and you can show them the marks I left. I can just imagine you telling Captain Sisko and Odo all about it, showing them the stripes on your ass.” The last word was drowned out by Bashir’s scream as the wand unexpectedly slashed down across his backside. Sloan laughed. “Have I finally gotten through to you, Dr. Bashir?”

“Someone will hear me,” Bashir said in a voice tremulous with pain. “They’ll come in a few minutes.”

“No, they won’t,” said Sloan, “because no sound can pass in or out of the force field I’ve erected around this room. Again Bashir’s harsh cry of pain assaulted Garak’s ears as the wand swished down with agonizing force.

Closing his eyes against the sight of Bashir’s writhing body, Garak put his hands over his ears and groaned aloud as another blow slashed down. “Give him what he wants, doctor,” he whispered urgently, as if his friend could hear him. “He’ll do whatever it takes to get the answer he wants to hear.” He forced himself to open his eyes just in time to see and hear another blow slap down on the helpless human. Bashir’s cries were muffled now as if he were biting the sheets to help him bear the pain. “I always knew you were brave,” Garak said with admiration, “but you need to let go now. Please, doctor, please—”

Once more the switch sliced through the air and into Bashir’s tender skin, this time drawing blood that showed faintly through the blue pajamas. Garak rose from his seat. _I don’t care,_ he thought. _I have to stop this._ But when he looked back at the screen, the leather men had stepped back, allowing Bashir to slide to the floor, where he knelt doubled over, panting hard.

“You’re strong,” Sloan said appraisingly. “I knew you were stronger than you looked, and that’s good.” Bashir shook his head, unable to retort. “But don’t hold out on me too long, doctor. If I don’t get what I want from you, I’m perfectly capable of killing you as an example to other reluctant operatives.”

When Bashir lifted his head Garak could see the hatred and humiliation in his eyes. “I’ll tell Sisko, Sloan,” he said with an effort. “You won’t get away with this.”

“On the contrary, doctor, you will tell no one. Anyone taken into your confidence will be in danger from me, too. You wouldn’t put your captain in that position, now, would you?” He gestured to the men, who immediately disappeared in a transporter beam. “This is just a sample of what I can do, Dr. Bashir. I have given you something to think over. Soon I will be back to hear your answer. If it isn’t to my liking I shall punish you again, and, rest assured, it will be worse next time. There’s no use trying to outwit me. Even if you don’t sleep in your quarters, I’ll find you wherever you are. I’ll beam you away when no one knows and keep you where no one will find you. I need your cooperation, and if I can’t have it, I’ll have your life.” He snapped the switch back into a small black rod. “Think of me, doctor,” he whispered, and he was gone.

Quickly, Garak deactivated his screen and grabbed a small piece of equipment out of a drawer before rushing to Bashir’s quarters.

When the outer door to his quarters hissed open, Bashir called out, “Who’s there?” in a voice that Garak had never heard from him before, querulous with pain and fear.

“It’s Garak,” he said softly, squatting down next to Bashir. “Where’s your medikit?”

“In the other room on the low table. But how did you know—”

Garak disappeared so quickly Bashir thought he must have been a hallucination until he returned with the medical bag. “Let me help you lie down on the bed,” Garak said kindly. “You’ll feel better after I work on these for a while.”

“No, Garak,” Bashir said urgently, taking him by the front of the shirt, “you can’t stay here. I don’t know how you knew, but he’ll kill you for it. He said he’d—”

“I’ve met Sloan before,” Garak said calmly, “and he hasn’t killed me yet. Let me help you.” Bashir allowed himself to be pulled up on the bed. “Excuse me, doctor. I must look at the damage,” Garak said as he peeled the sweat‑soaked pajama trousers off Bashir’s skin. Oh, how often had he wished he could do this, but under different circumstances! Bashir sucked in his breath sharply as the fabric pulled away from the wounds. Two were little more than raised welts, but the others were long, uniformly deep cuts, straight through the skin. They had obviously been expertly laid on to cover as much area as possible and maximize the pain. No wonder Bashir had screamed—the wonder was that he had steadfastly refused Sloan’s task. Garak suppressed a curse and started to run the medilyser over them. Without regen treatments—something Dr. Bashir would be able to prescribe for himself later—these wounds would scar. For right now, Garak could ease the pain and knit the broken skin, but the marks from these deep slashes would remain.

As he ran the instrument patiently up and down the welts, Garak thought how his sordid little spying project had ironically thrown him into this war between Bashir and Sloan. At some point he knew that Bashir would ask exactly how Garak had known about Sloan’s visit, and Garak couldn’t yet think of any made‑up story that might satisfy him. What would happen if he told Bashir the truth—that out of desperation and loneliness he had been spying on the doctor, watching him sleep, dress, make love? What would Bashir think if he knew how much Garak had longed to touch him like this? Bashir flinched from the pain, and with a murmured apology, Garak allowed himself to lay a reassuring hand on the smooth skin of Bashir’s back. Bashir didn’t move away. His skin was as smooth as it looked, warm and pliable. Garak moved the hand until it lay on Bashir’s ass, then rubbed it lightly across the still‑inflamed traces of the beating.

“How’s this, doctor? Are you free of pain, or shall I continue?”

“A bit more,” Bashir said in a strained voice.

Garak continued until the wounds were faint pink trails crossing the golden skin. When he ran his hand over Bashir’s ass again, the young man sighed as if his touch were comforting. Surprised, Garak caressed him a bit more obviously, cupping his ass with both hands, then running his fingertips lightly across the cleft. Bashir seemed to move with his touch, but perhaps he was just shifting position. Garak stroked him again, more firmly now, and then impulsively bent to plant a lingering kiss on the deepest scar.

Suddenly Bashir rolled over, and Garak thought he had gone too far. In his mind, he rapidly formulated and discarded a few excuses, so he was unprepared when Bashir sat up and pulled him down hard against his nakedness. Garak’s hand moved between them and found Bashir’s erection.

Bashir must have been stimulated by his touch. Garak’s mind reeled. If he had thought it would be this easy... All those endless, lonely nights... Garak lost control of himself, a thing that hadn’t happened to him in many years. In a lustful haze he somehow undressed himself, undressed Bashir, without having any idea how he had done so. Bashir was wrapped in his arms, naked and willing, murmuring encouragement, returning his kisses with fire in his tongue, begging Garak to get the lubricant from the medikit, sucking his cock, oh gods.... These things flashed through his consciousness until Bashir was lying there looking back at him lasciviously, as Garak again reverently kissed the places he had healed just moments before, then rose to his knees and spread lubricant over his cock with both hands. He found the place and pushed until he slid deliciously inside, buried in him, surrounded, feeling the unctuous push and pull, the lustful writhing of the young body under him. So long, wanting this for so long. This was real. _He wants me, I’m in him, he’s mine._ God knows what he whispered in the doctor’s ear. “Julian! I’d die for you.”

* * * * *

They lay together afterwards side by side, but Garak still couldn’t keep his hands off his new lover’s body. Ah, such tender, delicate skin. He pressed his lips gently to Bashir’s neck and the doctor sighed, nuzzling up against him. How cruel one had to be—and Garak would know—to beat a creature that possessed such skin. The least breath, the friction of a feather‑light touch, and waves of desire seemed to run visibly through him. Tougher‑skinned species, Klingons or Cardassians, could only match this degree of delicacy in a few spots: palms, fingertips, eyelids, genitals, lips. These vulnerable spots they considered weaknesses, but, oh, how much more vulnerable was a human like this one, living his life at the beck and call of any passing sensation. How could he concentrate on anything besides the messages his skin was sending him? Even thick‑skinned Cardassians were vulnerable to pain, of course—Garak had made a career out of that—but they seemed more enslaved by their passions than these sensual, fickle beings, perhaps because pleasure came to them through such small conduits. Humans could be exquisite animals, built for pleasure, or they could harden themselves like Sloan and become creatures of pure pain, all because of this fragile covering, this lovely skin that Garak could swear fairly glowed with arousal.

Now that the urgency of that first encounter had passed, Garak had time to marvel at his good fortune. Never having seen the doctor being amorous with a man, he had wrongly assumed that Bashir wouldn’t welcome his advances. What a curiosity this was, since Bashir obviously had experience with penetration and highly enjoyed it; indeed, he had begged for it just moments before.

Garak began to kiss him more deeply. He needed Bashir again, needed to know that this hadn’t been a one‑time accident. As they continued to kiss, open mouth against mouth, Garak took Bashir in his arms and rolled the doctor over on top of him so that all that sweet weight pressed him into the bed. He knew how to make love this way—it was something he particularly enjoyed, but would the doctor object? It was as if Bashir had read his mind. Raising himself to his knees, he reached back for Garak’s cock and poised it at his opening, slowly letting his weight make it slip inside while he watched Garak’s reaction. Garak couldn’t have hidden it if he tried. What a treasure! To discover that the one he had adored for all this time was as eager for sex as he was, and as adept.

_Sometime in your life, someone has kept you well‑fucked,_ Garak thought, suddenly jealous. Who could it be? “What are you thinking?” he asked aloud.

Bashir regarded him through half‑closed lids. “Thinking?” he asked languorously, with a hint of a smile, raising himself off Garak’s body. He sighed as he slowly impaled himself again. “I’m thinking...that you’re big.”

Taking him suddenly by the waist, Garak kept Bashir from moving while arching his back to fill him completely. “I’m thinking you like it big,” he growled.

Bashir threw back his head and breathed hard. His erection bobbed teasingly above Garak’s belly, but Garak only stroked it lightly and then let it go. “Oh, yes,” he said, closing his eyes, “yours is the biggest I’ve....” His words trailed off into a sigh, and a slight flush on his cheeks betrayed the fact that he might have thought better of what he was about to say.

_Well, at least there’s that,_ Garak thought, smiling, _and the fact that, whoever this less well‑endowed male is, he doesn’t seem to be readily accessible at present._

He gave himself up to the intense pleasure of fucking Bashir as Bashir moved up and down on him. He touched Bashir everywhere he could reach—chest, belly, thighs, ass, arms—while paying scant attention to his lovely erection, which was obviously quite ready to be adored. 

“Touch me,” Bashir whispered. “Why don’t you touch me?”

“I _am_ touching you, doctor. Whatever do you mean?” Garak asked facetiously, grabbing his ass hard.

Bashir laughed, understanding the game. “Touch my cock. Let it slide through your hand. Make me come.”

Garak took his erection between both palms and stroked it slowly, but not very hard. “You’re so greedy,” he said teasingly. “Can’t you wait?”

“No,” Bashir said, moving faster now and coming down harder at each stroke. “No, I can’t wait. Can you?” 

“I want to make it last,” Garak answered, continuing to stroke Bashir with agonizing slowness, making him push back and forth eagerly, caught between wanting more stimulation to his erection and wanting to keep Garak’s cock deep inside him.

“We can always do it again,” Bashir said, a little frantically. “Garak, make me come!”

Those words warmed Garak’s heart, which had been cold for so long. “Anything to oblige,” he said, stroking Bashir’s erection seriously now, wishing he could take it into his mouth, and promising himself that pleasure soon.

In five strokes, Bashir began to groan, pushing his ass tight against Garak and wriggling desperately. Moved by the sight and feel of Bashir overwhelmed by pleasure, Garak couldn’t hold on any more. He bucked under his young lover, arching his back against Bashir’s downwards thrusts. “Julian,” he sighed, not realizing he spoke. “Julian, oh, Julian...” The cream from Bashir’s cock dripped down Garak’s hands. He rubbed it over his own belly and chest, and took Bashir into his arms as the young man fell forward, utterly satisfied.

“Garak,” Bashir sighed a bit later.

“Yes?” Garak just wanted to lie there all night with Bashir in his arms. He dreaded being asked to go.

“Do you suppose Sloan watched us do that?” Bashir asked worriedly. “I didn’t even think.”

Garak laughed softly. “I’m glad you didn’t think,” he said. “That would mean I wasn’t being sufficiently distracting.” He laid one hand on Bashir’s ass just to keep the feel of him close and real.

Bashir turned to him and touched his cheek, looking into his eyes. “I didn’t know you felt that way about me, Garak,” he said simply.

“I thought you wouldn’t care to know.” Garak couldn’t think of any answer as appropriate as the truth.

“Oh, but I do,” Bashir said softly, stroking his face. Moving close so that their mouths were barely touching, Bashir flicked his tongue softly over Garak’s lips, cutting off his reply. Suddenly Bashir pulled away. “You know, you’re risking your life being here with me now. Sloan probably planted a listening device before he left. Or, hell, maybe he’s got a full‑color, life‑size holoscreen with multiphasic sound. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“If he does, it isn’t doing him any good right now,” Garak said with a sly smile. “Even if he put a bug in your quarters, which I wouldn’t doubt, I brought a little jammer that is set to block outgoing communications. It also jams transport in both directions.”

Bashir looked at the small device blinking cheerily away on the bedside table. “Good,” he said simply with obvious relief, and then, “Will you stay here tonight, Garak?”

“Of course, doctor.” Cautiously, Garak let his fears for the immediate future ebb away.

Julian pushed himself up and looked into Garak’s face. “‘Doctor’? You called me ‘Julian’ a moment ago. Don’t you think you’re being absurdly formal at this point?”

Garak smiled, inordinately pleased. “I suppose I am. Julian, then.”

Julian appeared to be waiting. “And—?” he said finally. 

“And what?” Garak was honestly puzzled.

“And aren’t you going to ask me to call you ‘Elim’?” He laughed. “I feel strange calling you that, but I feel stranger yelling out ‘Garak!’ while I’m coming all over you.”

“‘Elim’ it shall be,” Garak said agreeably. He disliked his first name thoroughly, but he imagined it might take on a new patina if Julian used it often enough.

They showered together, and Garak limited his attentions to gentle affection, for he could see that Julian wanted nothing more intense for the moment. Just the simple caresses they exchanged filled him with a fierce, possessive joy that he hadn’t known in years. He felt alive again.

* * * * *

Garak awoke knowing that someone was watching him. Opening his eyes, he saw Bashir’s face hovering over his own, looking happy and yet a bit pensive, as if he had been thinking for a while. Before saying a word, Garak kissed him, glad to see that he could bring a sigh to those lips.

“How long have you been awake?” Garak asked.

“About an hour. I’ve been watching you sleep, and thinking.”

Better face it now. “Thinking what?”

“Wondering, I suppose is more accurate. I’ve been wondering a lot of things. How you knew that Sloan was here last night, where you’ve met him before, and, the biggest mystery of all, why you and I didn’t do this years ago.” With one finger Bashir traced a line down the side of Garak’s jaw. “I’ve been fascinated with you for a long time, you know.” He frowned. “Or maybe you didn’t know.”

“I knew you were interested in knowing my secrets,” Garak said slowly, choosing his words, “and I knew you enjoyed my company, but...”

“But, what?”

He sighed. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, doctor—Julian—but I assumed that your sexual tastes were centered on women. I think I had good reasons for that view, and I can tell you their names.” Garak ended by giving him another kiss to soften the impact of his words.

Julian looked rueful. “I was afraid of that, and that’s why I was determined to make the first move, if only you would give me a definite sign, which you didn’t until last night.”

Garak looked at him strangely. “I have been, shall we say, preoccupied with you for years. I thought you knew.”

“Well, I wondered, but then I saw the way you reacted to Ziyal. And I was afraid that if I told you how I felt, you’d reject me again the way you did after I helped you with the implant.” As Bashir spoke, Garak knew with a sinking feeling that he was right. “I thought that experience would deepen our friendship, but you pushed me away. You seemed to want to keep everything on a superficial level.”

_I didn’t want to be hurt,_ thought Garak. “Doctor,” he said abruptly, “we need to talk about Sloan.”

“Yes, we do,” Bashir said sharply, “but not until we’ve finished talking about us. I do want to hear how you knew what was going on in my quarters in the middle of the night. But first I want to know how you feel about...this. About what’s happened between us.”

_He’s opened up to you, you fool,_ Garak told himself sternly. _You have everything you’ve wanted for years and you could lose it right here with one wrong word._ The bitterness of long deprivation and despair welled up inside him. “I never want this to end,” he said, choking out the truth, gripping Julian’s shoulders hard. “I took a chance last night but I never thought you’d want me. I thought you’d ask me to leave. If I lost you now, I’d...” Surprised by the force of his own emotion, he couldn’t go on, but Bashir must have read the rest in his eyes because he cupped Garak’s face in his hands and kissed him for a long time.

“All right, Elim,” Bashir said softly. “Now tell me how you knew about Sloan.” 

Garak concentrated, trying to keep these almost‑forgotten emotions from spilling over and tripping up his words. “Ever since the last time he forced you to work for him, I’ve worried about you,” Garak began, “so I reactivated a Cardassian surveillance device, something left over from the station’s early days, that was left in your quarters.” The half‑truth came easily out of his mouth. Garak hadn’t thought that Sloan would return, but had imagined that Bashir would seem too contentious to call on again. “I watched you occasionally. I... I watched you sleep, just to make sure you were all right.”

“What if you turned it on when I wasn’t sleeping?” Bashir asked pointedly.

“Then I regretted invading your privacy and I turned it off,” Garak said promptly, nearly believing it himself.

Bashir laughed softly as he pushed Garak flat on the bed and lay on top of him, looking into his face with an enigmatic smile. “We are so very different,” he said. “I’ve told myself that many times, when I despaired of ever finding out the truth about you. But when you left the station to chase after the Jem’Hadar with Tain and the Romulans, I missed you, damn it. I couldn’t find anyone to take your place. And instead of leaving me with a hint of your feelings, you left me with that stupid joke about the isolinear rod. I can still hear your voice, ‘I want you to eat it, doctor.’ God, I couldn’t imagine how you could leave me like that unless you didn’t care at all. And then, later, I thought, ‘Well, maybe he’s been so badly hurt that he can never really face the truth again, except in short bursts.’ Since then I’ve wavered between those two completely different views of who you are: the cold‑hearted tease, or the emotional romantic I hoped you were, hiding your broken heart behind a callous exterior.” Bashir smiled at his own sense of melodrama. “So which is it, Elim? I know what you’re going to say,” he continued, before Garak could speak. “You’re going to say that you’re both people, that both are true. And that won’t get us anywhere.”

Garak felt as if he had just been flushed out of a very good, dark hiding place into the light. “You’re right, I was going to say that,” he said, surprised again into frankness. “I don’t like categories. I don’t want you to judge me by the roles I’ve played, and there have been many. But I will tell you how I truly felt that day, and maybe that will satisfy you. As I was making that absurd joke, it was killing me to leave you. I was moved that you came to see me off, but I didn’t want you or what I felt about you to make me weak before I had to face Enabran. I wanted to drive you away.” 

“Elim....” Bashir began, relenting.

“Now answer a question for me.”

“All right.”

“Who was he? Who was the man who taught you how to make love that way? Or were there several?” Having been forced to tell the truth himself, Garak was suddenly more ruthless than kind.

“Oh.” Bashir looked discomfited. “There was really only one important one. It’s so intense for me, I don’t do it...casually. We were cadets together at the Academy. He was older and was supposed to be my upper-class mentor. An affair between us would have been frowned upon, to say the least, so we kept it secret. I don’t suppose anyone ever knew. He was my opposite in every way. He was the top pilot of his year, a crack shot, someone whose mind and body worked together perfectly, just the way he wanted them to. I always envied that.”

“Even with your genetic engineering?” Garak interjected.

“Especially with that. I took a long time to learn coordination because my strength wasn’t really normal in proportion to my body. I still have to concentrate if I don’t want to be clumsy. Anyway, he was beautiful—built a little like Sisko, but much better looking. His name was Jahred. He was the kind of man everyone wanted. I had him, but no one ever knew. Later on, he was one of the reasons I left Pelisse. I was still seeing him sometimes, and I knew she would leave me if she found out. But I couldn’t give him up.” He looked at Garak’s face and shook his head sadly. “Don’t be jealous, Elim. We used to see each other once a year or so, when we could, but two years ago, at the height of the war, I read the casualty lists one day and found out he was dead. I didn’t even have anyone to talk to about it. I’ve never told a soul.”

“I’m sorry,” Garak whispered, finding to his surprise that he was.

They fell to kissing urgently, with the revelations each had made still hanging in the air. After a moment, Garak rolled over on top of Bashir, wanting to possess him and drive away the ghostly lover whose presence he had just invoked. He left Bashir’s mouth and kissed his way down the long body to the smooth, golden cock with its glistening head. As he had promised himself last night, he let it slide into his mouth, holding it with suction while sliding it back out so that he could lick it slowly from base to tip with lazy strokes of his tongue that made Bashir cry out with impatience. He slipped it past his lips again, swirling his tongue around the tip so as not to disappoint his greedy lover.

“Elim, do you hear? I want you to fuck me. How many times will you make me ask?”

Garak realized that he hadn’t heard, so intent had he been on the task before him. “But I want to do this,” he answered, unwilling to stop before he had made Bashir come into his mouth.

“Fuck me now, and then you can finish me that way,” he said with an effort.

Garak laughed. “I wager you won’t last that long if I fuck you.” He smoothed on some lubricant and pushed Bashir’s legs up to his chest, mounting him quickly with proprietary ease, watching Bashir’s face as he felt himself being filled. He could see now that Bashir needed this badly, and yet was self‑conscious about his desire, which amounted to an obsession of sorts. He needed to feel safe before he could ask for what he wanted, and yet he was driven to ask for it. Somehow the small humiliation of begging to be filled added spice to the act for him, and Garak loved the feeling of ownership it gave him to discard the all‑too‑familiar role of a humble suitor, begging to be accepted.

Reveling in being able to give Bashir what he wanted, Garak let himself drift into that timeless place where the repetitious actions of sex become an end in themselves, where each thrust, like the current in a lazy stream, moves both lovers imperceptibly closer to completion until time catches up with them, and, in a tidal rush, abandons them on shore.

“I told you. I said you wouldn’t last,” Garak said, lying back with Bashir partly draped over him.

“I forgot.” Bashir grinned shamelessly.

“Eventually I’m going to finish doing that even if I have to tie you down,” Garak said with mock irritation.

Bashir laughed suggestively. “That might be interesting.”

Oh, what possibilities were here! Garak laid a possessive hand on Julian’s ass. And to think that last night he had been afraid to do this simple thing. Last night.... Yes, they would have to deal with Sloan soon, and there was no use underestimating him again. Why could nothing be simple? If they had started this affair years ago, they would have had all the time in the world to explore without this worrisome distraction.

“I’m afraid the moment has come to discuss our friend Sloan,” he said reluctantly.

“Oh, damn!” Bashir said explosively, sitting up. Garak was shocked at his reaction. “No, it’s not Sloan,” the doctor explained, smoothing his tangled hair, “it’s work. It’s morning and I’m late for work.” He bent down for one brief kiss. “Shall we meet for lunch?”

“Why not?” agreed Garak, relieved.

Garak laughed to see him dash off to the shower but followed a moment later. He still had a chance to open the shop approximately on time.


	2. Chapter 2

“Good morning, doctor.”

“Good afternoon, Garak.”

When they met at the replimat with their usual contradictory greeting, Garak realized how hard it would be to keep this thing under wraps. They were walking very close together suddenly, and neither seemed to be able to help it. Or maybe they had always done this, but now everything just seemed different. Had every word and gesture between them always been filled with such seductive invitation? Even sitting across the table from Bashir, Garak kept having the urge to lay a hand on his knee.

“And how was your morning, doctor?” Garak asked formally.

“I managed to give myself a regen treatment,” Bashir murmured. “I’ll need one more for the deepest cut. It’s amazing how much that beating hurt.”

“I know.” Garak couldn’t resist covering Bashir’s hand with his own for a split second as he reached for a condiment he didn’t really want.

They ate companionably with fewer words and more glances than usual between them. Finally, Garak dabbed lightly at his lips with his napkin and pushed his plate away. 

“I think it’s time to discuss your decision, Julian,” Garak said seriously. 

“Decision?” Julian’s fork stopped in midair.

Garak nodded. “You must decide whether you want to accept Sloan’s job or try to resist him. I must tell you, it will be difficult, but I’m sure I can prevent Sloan from getting to you.”

Bashir sighed. “I suppose going along with him would save me another beating, but I promised myself I’d never do his dirty work again.”

“You won’t have to. I’ll find a way to stop him.”

“You? By yourself?”

Garak shook his head and smiled. “This younger generation. You have no idea who I was, do you?”

Julian looked at him affectionately. “I’ll bet anything that you’re going to tell me.” He took a too‑large bite of food that filled his cheeks out, suddenly making him look very young. 

Garak leaned in confidentially. “They called me the Sorcerer, you know.” 

“Where? In the Obsidian Order?” 

Garak smiled and shrugged evasively. “Where I used to work.” He knew how much Julian enjoyed their little cat‑and‑mouse game.

Bashir laughed out loud and nearly choked on his food. “Somehow I don’t think it was a name you earned for your tailoring skills. Come on, Garak, you know you want to tell me about it.” 

Garak leaned in confidentially, noting with satisfaction that the doctor had unconsciously leaned towards him, too. “Three times I was given assignments that were meant to get me killed, undercover missions to sabotage key positions in the heart of enemy territory. When I succeeded and came back to haunt the officers who had sent me there, they had no choice but to promote me. After that my life became more dangerous than ever, as more and more powerful Cardassians saw me as a threat, but no one dared to touch me. Even when I finally...failed, I was exiled rather than executed.”

“Even so, Garak, you’re only one man. Who knows how much power and how many men Sloan has at his disposal?” 

Garak smiled and touched his knee gently to Bashir’s. “I have a very good idea. I know how he works. Men like him never change.” 

Moving his fork around his salad aimlessly, Bashir didn’t answer immediately. “How powerful is he really? When did you meet him before?”

Garak had spent some time planning exactly what to say. He had no intention of revealing all of his history with Sloan. There were things in that dark past he would keep from Julian forever, come what may. “I have encountered him several times over the years,” Garak began carefully. “His great strength is that he is willing to go to any lengths to get the job done. He will make any sacrifice, take any risk. Perhaps he is deluded in thinking himself invulnerable, but I have never seen him make a serious mistake. He’s brilliant at formulating a master plan while leaving certain areas of flexibility in case something goes wrong. He works with what some would consider a skeleton crew, but they are men he owns completely. It would be impossible to corrupt them or turn them against him.”

“Does he have any weaknesses?” Julian had put his fork down on the plate and was listening intently.

“Yes, in my opinion, his fanaticism is his greatest weakness, but it hasn’t hurt him yet. As a technician, he’s flawless. In fact, fanaticism can also be seen as a strength—someone who knows he’s right can proceed steadily towards his goal without hesitation. We can only hope that some day he’ll fall because he won’t let go of an unrealizable goal.”

Julian’s worried look made Garak want to reach out and take hold of him. “How can you hope to beat him, then?”

This was the fork in the road, the moment where Garak’s true plans diverged from the story he was telling Bashir. “Ah, I have more humble aspirations than beating him, my dear doctor. It’s obvious that he needs your services now—there seemed to be some urgency to his visit. I intend to hold him off until he can’t wait anymore. Sloan has accepted stalemates before. Believe me, if we keep him waiting long enough, he will find another solution to his problem and leave you alone.” _After he’s dead, you’ll fear him for a while and then you’ll forget he ever existed._

“But won’t he come back?”

_Never._ “Perhaps. Or perhaps he’ll decide your services aren’t worth the time. He is a very busy man.” Garak smiled his most charming smile, hoping to convey some of his confidence to the doctor.

Bashir sighed. “I suppose you could be right. But how do you know him so well? What were you doing when you encountered him before?” he asked curiously.

Garak continued to smile flirtatiously, hoping to conceal the intense emotions that any mention of Sloan raised in him. “I met him several times. I can’t tell you about most of the circumstances, because merely to know some of those things is dangerous. Suffice it to say that we were usually on opposite sides of the question. We only worked together once, and he managed to accomplish much more than I hoped he would.”

“Much more? But weren’t you on the same side?”

“We were supposed to be, but he had other goals he never mentioned to me although our joint work furthered them. I never looked far enough past the mask—I must admit I dismissed him as simply another Terran fanatic, and so I saw what he was doing too late to stop him. When Enabran found out what had happened, he thought I had betrayed him.” Garak picked up his fork again and toyed with his remaining food without taking a bite. “The next day I was bleeding all over the floor of an interrogation cell, listening to Enabran’s favorite lecture about duty and loyalty.”

“And that’s why he exiled you?”

Garak nodded once. “We were trying to keep the Federation from coming to Bajor—or, at least, that’s what _I_ was trying to do.”

Bashir looked confused. “But wasn’t Sloan working for the Federation?”

Laughing ruefully, Garak shook his head. “Sloan always makes up his own mind what he’s doing. He had been ordered to smooth the way for a Federation presence on Bajor, but he told me he had decided that the Federation ought to stay out of Bajor for its own good because, sooner or later, Bajor would apply for membership. He didn’t want to see that happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because of Bajor’s complicated relationship with Cardassia, and even more so because of its complicated internal affairs. We didn’t know about the wormhole at that point, remember. Of course, Sloan only told me part of the truth about his intentions.”

Bashir looked even more confused. “But he failed. The Federation _did_ come to Bajor.” 

“Oh, no. He succeeded. I failed. I thought he had decided to ignore his orders and help me keep the Federation out. Instead he got the Cardassians out and Star Fleet in without making it possible for Bajor to apply for Federation membership for many years. He incited the remnants of the Resistance to oppose ‘the new occupation.’ Even Colonel Kira and Captain Sisko have probably been his unknowing pawns, as I also was. Now the Federation has a new outpost of strategic importance, but they don’t have to be overly involved in the internal affairs of Bajor.” He sat back in his chair. “There you are, doctor. A typical Section 31 plot. Layered with complications and contradictions, all leading towards a clear goal. Of course, his plan had the added benefit of discrediting me. I’m sure in retrospect that he intended to do it from the moment we met.”

_The moment we met.... Sloan, with his handsome face and his cocky air, dressed all in black leather. I’d seen him before when I defeated him during a minor incident involving a Maquis camp on some insignificant colonial planet, a ball of rock and sand at the edge of the Badlands. For all I know now, his defeat might have been intentional, meant to draw me in, make me overconfident._

_That look he gave me when I boarded his runabout—troubled, and yet fascinated, too. He seemed unable to keep his eyes off me, and maybe he was. Sloan is cold‑hearted enough to use his own desires, his own body, as just so many tools in his arsenal. When I got too close to him, he breathed shallowly and shied away. I knew then I could have him._

The doctor looked down at his plate. “So what are we going to do? Perhaps we should talk to Odo.”

Garak wrenched his mind away from his memories. None of that mattered now. His defeat at Sloan’s hands had strengthened him, made him wiser. This time he wouldn’t be distracted, and he would win. With his own strength and experience he would dispose of the one who had caused his misfortunes. He would strike silently, secretly. Perhaps Sloan had forgotten he was here, or, thinking him broken, discounted him. Garak’s patience and seeming humility had been rewarded. With one masterful blow he could take his fate back into his own hands. “I would advise against talking to anyone on the station,” Garak said smoothly. “It might be disastrous to get Star Fleet involved.”

“Why?”

“Because, although Sloan behaves like a criminal, he always has official channels to fall back upon. Apparently this time he would prefer not to use them, but at your first encounter, didn’t Star Fleet Security cover for him while he abducted you?” Strong emotions would distract the doctor and prevent him from wondering if Garak had a hidden agenda.

“Yes,” Bashir said, angry at the memory of that humiliation. “He took me to a concealed ship and pretended to arrest me for treason. He tortured and interrogated me, and even made me believe he was marching me down the Promenade in restraints.” Bashir looked down at his plate, remembering. “Sisko wasn’t able to find out a thing afterwards.”

Garak nodded. “He can trump up a false charge and take you right out of Sisko’s hands, or he can appear secretly and whisk you off the station. Either way, once you’re in his hands, he can do whatever he likes with you.” Garak hated to play on Bashir’s fear, but for the success of his plan it was necessary to convince the doctor not to bring Star Fleet into the equation. 

“Why hasn’t he done that already? Why bother with this charade of ‘punishing’ me until I do what he wants?” On the table Bashir’s hands were balled into fists.

Why indeed? It didn’t fit Sloan’s usual method. Garak wondered for a second if he were missing something. Because showing Bashir his uncertainty could be fatal to his plan, Garak came up with a facile explanation that wasn’t really satisfying. He’d think it through later when he was alone. “The first time you met he took you off the station merely to show you how powerful he was. Since then, he has made an effort to secure your cooperation before proceeding, which would be harder to get if he abducted you first.”

“I suppose...” Bashir paused. “I suppose he wants to show me that he can do anything he wants to me, that he can humiliate me at his leisure, and that’s there’s no use resisting.” He looked down for a moment and then lifted his angry eyes to Garak. “Why doesn’t somebody stop him?” he asked forcefully. “Others in Star Fleet must know about Section 31.” 

Garak leaned forward. “Keep your voice down, Julian. Because everyone’s afraid of him, and they have reason to be.”

“That doesn’t sound very hopeful.” Bashir tossed his napkin onto his half‑empty plate. “I wish I believed there was some way to keep him from getting to me. It’s starting to sound as if I’m doomed no matter what I do.”

Now that Garak had convinced the doctor that there was no help to be had from Star Fleet, he needed to offer—cautiously and subtly—his own alternative. “I believe I can hold him off, Julian, but you do have a real decision to make,” Garak said seriously. He knew Bashir would respond much better to a choice than to an ultimatum. The trick was to maneuver him towards the correct alternative. “If you accept Sloan’s proposition you can dictate the terms, and you can even sabotage the job if you don’t like it.”

Bashir laughed hollowly. “Yes, I can sabotage it,” he said ironically, “just like I did last time. He fooled me so completely, Elim. I thought I was blowing him out of the water, but I was doing exactly what he wanted me to do. His whole plan was based on knowing what I would do to try to sabotage him. It’s humiliating to be so transparent. And I’m responsible for Cretek’s imprisonment, maybe her death. I was never able to find out what happened to her.”

“But if you do the job then he’ll have to let you go. And, remember, you don’t even know what he wants you to do yet.” Garak enjoyed playing devil’s advocate. He could feel the path narrowing. Soon Bashir would find himself with only one alternative. 

Bashir leaned forward and spoke into Garak’s face. “I don’t care to know what he wants me to do. Because if I do this job, one day there will be another job, and then another. Where will it end? When will I be free of him? I’ll be his operative, his ‘man,’ the very dependable Dr. Bashir. No, I won’t do it. I’d rather take the risk.”

Garak nodded approvingly as pride swelled in his chest. Bashir would trust him now. “A wise decision, doctor.”

“How can you say that,” Bashir said, struggling to keep his voice low, “when you’ve just told me how powerful he is?”

“Ah, yes, but I have my own methods and resources.” Garak affected a relaxed air. With Bashir’s trust, he felt he could accomplish anything, even Sloan’s assassination. “One must have the intuition to judge an opponent’s next move. If you want to catch him, you must intrigue him, pull him in with a problem he’s sure he can solve. To do that, of course, you must know his weaknesses. When you have his attention, you do all you can to frustrate him. That removes his self‑confidence.”

“And?” asked Bashir, clearly expecting more.

“And you wait for him to fall into your trap.” 

Bashir continued to look confused. “That sounds like what Sloan did to me, but I don’t see how it helps us. We want to get rid of him, not attract him.”

Garak was disappointed to see that Bashir wasn’t interested in this theoretical discussion. “Of course. The solution in this case is to make the cost of success too high for Sloan. He’ll do everything he can to get you to accept his job, but when time runs out, he’ll be forced to pursue another quarry. All we have to do is wait.” 

“Wait?” Bashir looked skeptical.

“It also helps to have sophisticated transporter inhibitors and unbreakable encryption codes,” Garak said cheerfully, “which I have in plenty.” He touched Bashir’s hand lightly and stood. They had spoken of this long enough. Above all, he didn’t want the brilliantly analytical doctor examining his shadow plan too closely. “I must return to my shop now, doctor. Make sure that you are alone as seldom as possible. Keep the jammer with you. I don’t know how long Sloan will leave us in peace. There’s no use underestimating him.” _Don’t worry, Julian. All I need to do is meet him once, out in the open, and he’s doomed. He’ll never bother you again._ Now Garak hesitated. He had one more thing to say, and he would rather not say it. In the nights that followed, he intended to act as Bashir’s bodyguard and constant shadow, but not as his lover. “Perhaps it would be better,” he began slowly, “until Sloan has given up, if we....”

But Bashir was no longer listening. He cleared his throat nervously. “Can I come to your quarters tonight, Elim? I know that won’t necessarily prevent him from finding me, but....”

For years Garak had dreamed of hearing Bashir ask to spend the night in his quarters. Now that the doctor had actually spoken those words, Garak was incapable of suggesting that they suspend their love affair until the situation with Sloan was resolved. _I won’t let myself be distracted. I can protect him more effectively if I’m there in the room with him,_ Garak thought, working hard to convince himself. In the old days, his more ruthless self never flinched at self‑denial for a cause. _But what did I ever gain from it? An exile on a piece of space trash where no one but this young Terran cares for a moment what becomes of me._ Very deliberately, Garak rejected his training and followed his instinct, which told him that he could protect what he loved the best by holding it in his arms. “Of, course you can stay, Julian,” Garak said quietly, unable to resist standing close to Bashir, feeling the heat of his slender body while thinking of what they would probably be doing that evening. “I was about to suggest it, because I have certain safeguards in place that will deter Sloan from finding you there.”

They walked silently down the Promenade and then went their separate ways.

Over the next few days, they established a satisfactory routine, spending every night together, eating as many meals together as possible. People around the station did begin to talk, but Bashir and Garak had stopped caring. Their lovemaking became more intense with each passing day, to the point that they could hardly stand to be apart. The only way of keeping Sloan from knowing how much they cared for one another was to stay apart, and neither of them was ready to do that. Garak convinced himself that it didn’t matter, that he would never let Sloan get close enough to use one against the other. He made regular, meticulous searches of both their quarters, but turned up no devices planted by Sloan, nor any evidence that Sloan had yet tried to break his defenses. 

One night in Garak’s bed, Bashir dared to hope out loud that Sloan had found another solution to his problem and had decided to leave him in peace. Garak shook his head indulgently. “I’m afraid I would not declare victory yet, Julian. He’s watching us, waiting until he spots a weakness before he moves in.”

Julian looked anxious. “What weakness? Are we doing anything wrong?”

“Not so far, apparently. But I’m sure that Sloan believes we will. That’s what intrigues him.” _That and our relationship,_ Garak thought silently, _the thing he will focus on, the thing that means the most to us, the bait that will destroy him._

“I’d like to be dull and uninteresting to him,” Bashir joked, but his smile looked forced to Garak’s sharp eye. “How can we go about de‑intriguing him?” 

“I have a plan that will throw him off‑balance and humiliate him,” Garak said simply. “He’ll leave us alone then, believe me.” The repeated lie tugged at Garak’s heart. _Lies and more lies. This is the last time, Julian. When I’ve disposed of Sloan there need never be another lie between us._

“Garak, are you sure?” Julian cried as if reading his thoughts. “I would think he’d want to take revenge. Are you saying that if we humiliate him he’ll just leave? We won’t ever see him again?”

“If Sloan can’t get to you when you’re alone, he’ll have to come when you’re with others,” Garak said thoughtfully, avoiding the question. “I hope he’ll appear when we’re having lunch or dinner at the replimat—it would be like him to try to spoil our meal.”

“And then what? He’ll just leave?” Julian’s expression wavered between disbelief and hope.

“You’ll see. Trust me.” Garak stopped Julian’s mouth with a kiss. “Remember,” he murmured close to Bashir’s lips, “they used to call me...”

“...the Sorcerer,” Bashir finished, laughing. “Well, I’d like to see some magic, then. Show me your best trick, Sorcerer.”

“With pleasure,” Garak assented majestically, throwing back the covers and kneeling over his lover’s body. Holding Bashir’s arms at his sides, Garak bent and touched his tongue to one of the human’s delicate nipples before taking it gently between his teeth.

Bashir gasped and struggled in his arms. “Oh, Garak, it’s too intense. Garak!”

Garak let the nub of sensitive flesh slip from his teeth. “Shall I stop?”

“No.” Garak bent again and suckled at his chest. “No!” Bashir cried. “Garak, will you let me go? I want... I want to....” Whatever Bashir wanted remained unsaid as Garak moved swiftly down his body and began licking his cock in long, lustful strokes from base to tip. Bashir’s wrists were still trapped beneath Garak’s broad hands, his legs immobilized by Garak’s weight. He struggled to rise, thrusting towards Garak’s mouth, but the Cardassian eluded him, laughing, continuing to lick and tease with his tongue. Bashir groaned in frustration. “I can’t stand it, Garak!”

“What do you want?” Garak asked in mock surprise. “You haven’t made a request, have you?” He licked the tip harder for a moment, and then ran his tongue to the base before taking one of Bashir’s testicles gently into his mouth.

Panting, Bashir laughed, his eyes glazed with lust. “I wish...” he said, “I wish I could be patient for once and let you do what you’re going to do, but I can’t stand it. Make me come, Garak. Make me come and then fuck me, damn it.”

Engulfing Bashir’s cock in his mouth, Garak shook his head and growled like a dog worrying a bone. He released Bashir’s wrists and embraced him around the waist as Bashir took hold of his head and spent into his mouth, crying out. He dropped back on the crumpled sheets, apparently exhausted, but when Garak began to turn him over, Bashir pounced, knocking him flat on his back.

“Now,” he said triumphantly, “you aren’t going to fuck me this time. I have something else in mind.”

Garak let himself be conquered. “I thought you asked for it,” he observed, loving Bashir’s open, uninhibited look, the lustful sound of his voice, the taste and scent of his sweat and cum. 

“I lied,” Bashir gloated, lowering his lips to suck hard on Garak’s leathery grey nipple.

The sweetness of the gesture and its futility nearly broke Garak’s heart. So many times in his life he had wished to have less feeling, less desire. Feelings things deeply made him vulnerable—feeling things at all. He had wished himself a statue—impervious, invulnerable—and, compared to this exquisite creature, that’s what he was. Now he wished that some sort of magic could make him wholly sensitive—could give him a delicate skin and a mind empty of memories, a restored sense of wonder. “I have no sensation there,” he said quickly, “but a little lower down, perhaps you’ll find...”

Bashir looked at him in surprise. “Your skin is so thick,” he said, trying to hide his disappointment, “except here.” His tongue barely touched the tip of Garak’s solid erection, sending a shock though his body.

“I think you’ve found the spot,” Garak agreed, trying to sound calm, but amused to hear his own voice so ragged with arousal. “Julian,” he said slowly, savoring every word, “I want to fuck you.”

Julian licked him, then engulfed his cock without sucking it and dragged it back out through his teeth. “That’s a switch,” he said with amusement. “I think I like to be begged. Ask me again.”

“Julian, please let me fuck you.” Garak had to force out the words, so little did begging suit him. Too many old humiliations tried to surface, each with its own particular torture, its own unique rage. The exquisite gem of cold anger crystallized inside him, facet by facet, and he tried to shatter it, to stay in the spirit of the game. 

“No,” Julian said mischievously, planting wet kisses all over Garak’s aching cock.

It would have been so easy to force him, to be inside him in a second, coming, taking what was his. But Garak held himself in check, choking out the words.

“Julian, please...” _Please don’t push me too far. Don’t find out what I really am...._

“Please, what?”

“Let me fuck you,” Garak gasped, hardly able to force out a voice. 

Julian hesitated a full fifteen seconds, drawing little patterns with his fingertip down the slick skin of Garak’s cock.

“Yes,” he said finally, “fuck me.” Garak rolled over on him easily, trying not to be too rough. Twice the lubricant slipped from his trembling hands until Bashir took it from him and made him ready. “Garak,” he asked, looking into his lover’s face, “what’s wrong?” 

Garak groaned as he slipped inside. In a few thrusts he was coming, stifling his voice against Julian’s neck and shoulder.

“I just wanted you so much,” he panted, barely whispering into Julian’s ear. _Too much,_ he thought with painful irony. _At least the Sorcerer knows his own weakness. But Sloan knows it, too._

_They were alone on the runabout. It was a large model, like a starship captain’s yacht, with two small cabins and large communal living quarters behind the control room. Sloan never allowed Garak to enter the control room, fearing that Garak would take the ship while he was gone in order to get his hands on its illegal cloaking device. Garak never even bothered to work on the encryption code. He had other fish to fry._

_The cloaked ship orbited Bajor while Sloan and Garak came and went, pursuing their relative plans, plans whose outcomes were supposed to dovetail neatly. Sloan’s daily reports seemed to reinforce that view. Garak’s reports, although somewhat at odds with the truth, told Sloan all he needed to know to do his work with the Bajoran resistance, if in truth he intended to keep his part of the bargain. In later years, Garak realized that he should have noticed inconsistencies in Sloan’s reports, things that didn’t jibe with his own observations and Cardassian intelligence reports to which Sloan had no access. An expert liar, Sloan knew very well the hundred ways any lie, however perfect, can be debunked. His genius was that he didn’t depend on a lie to hold its own. He told the best lie he could and then he backed it up with his body. He put his body on the line for his work._

_The first time Garak had him was only twelve hours into the mission. They were sitting in the living quarters, Garak at the table and Sloan off to one side in an armchair, trying to hammer out the details of their plan. Sloan_ _balked at a suggestion of Garak’s once too often, and Garak swooped down upon him, yanking him out of the comfortable chair by his leather‑clad shoulders and snarling the words into his face._

_Sloan had melted against him. Garak could feel his knees trembling. To this day he didn’t believe it was feigned. Sloan really wanted him, desperately, hopelessly, against his own will._

_He bit Sloan’s lips and face and neck, leaving marks, as he stripped away the leather suit. Sloan’s body was pale and spare. Even the hair at his chest and groin was almost blond. Although muscular by human standards, he was no match for Garak, not that he resisted._

_Garak shoved Sloan to the floor in front of him, treating him like the lowest kind of thing. Wordlessly, he pushed his erection in Sloan’s face, and the Terran sucked it desperately. Disgusted by his eagerness, Garak withdrew. He wanted to keep control of this encounter. “Make me ready,” he ordered, and Sloan complied. Hauling Sloan to his feet, Garak bent him over the table, holding Sloan’s hands behind his back, and entered him hard, satisfied to hear Sloan’s involuntary groan of pleasure. He was no virgin. Others had been here before, and Garak wondered who, although he never found out. Sloan kept the secrets he wished to keep._

_Although Garak had intended to leave Sloan unsatisfied, the human came on his own, writhing against the force of Garak’s strokes. In the weeks that followed, Sloan took everything Garak dished out and begged for more. Garak treated him with the utter contempt Sloan seemed to crave. When Sloan didn’t come, Garak refused to touch him, forcing him instead to stroke himself while Garak watched. They coupled continually. Garak felt as if he owned Sloan now, and imperceptibly began to take him less and less seriously. He began to devise tests of Sloan’s insatiable taste for degradation. He made Sloan kiss his boots, grovel and beg, mumbling the shameful words: “Fuck me. Please. Fuck me.” He never reached the end of Sloan’s endurance, and he never learned the lesson about his own needs and obsessions that was staring him in the face. Or, rather, he learned the lesson later, much too late. By then, he had a lot of time on his hands._

_When Julian said those same words, did some of those same things, Garak didn’t find them degrading at all. It was strange how love had changed everything in just a few short years. It had even changed Elim Garak._


	3. Chapter 3

“Hey, there,” said Ezri, stopping with her lunch tray at Bashir’s table. “I haven’t seen you alone in weeks.”

“Hey, yourself,” Bashir countered, trying to hide his blush. “Have a seat.” He assumed Garak would show up at any moment. The tailor had expected to be late because of a large shipment of fabric from Bajor that had to be checked before the transport left at 1300 hours. 

“Don’t mind if I do.” Ezri’s cheerfulness suddenly seemed forced, and Bashir wondered if her happening to show up right at this moment were entirely coincidental. “So,” she said expectantly.

“So?”

“So what have you been up to?” 

Bashir blushed again. Everything suddenly seemed to have a double meaning. “N‑not a lot,” he stammered, shrugging. “You know.”

“Well, actually, I _do_ know,” Ezri said, picking up her sandwich.

“You do?” Julian lowered his fork to his plate a little too abruptly.

Ezri looked back and forth warily. “Oops, wait a minute. What did I say? I’m sorry, Julian, but doesn’t the whole station know?”

Bashir laughed softly, shaking his head. “I suppose they do.”

“So, it’s love, then?”

Bashir stared at her for a second. “Yeah, it’s love.”

“I was going to ask you if you were sure you knew what you were doing, but I guess...” She trailed off. “I guess you do.”

Bashir nodded. “I think we do.” He grinned at her for a moment before his smile faded. “Oh, god, Ezri, I’m sorry. I mean, I never even told you. You had to hear it through the station grapevine, and that must not have been....”

Ezri waved his words away. “It’s all right. I just wanted to hear it from you, but I’m sure you didn’t have time to tell me. I mean, when it all happens so fast like that, it’s....” She paused and rested her chin on her hands. “So, how _did_ it happen?”

Bashir wasn’t sure what to say, so he just went blundering in. “Garak came to my quarters one night, and we both suddenly realized that....” Just as Ezri’s expression turned to alarm, Bashir suddenly became conscious of someone standing just to his left and slightly behind him. He turned quickly.

“Well, Dr. Bashir, aren’t you going to invite me to join you?” Sloan said. The edge of steel in his eyes belied the pleasantry.

“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” Bashir said, rising and preparing to abandon his lunch and his companion.

“Ah, Sloan, you’ve arrived,” Garak said expansively, coming up behind Bashir and startling him. “A not entirely unexpected pleasure.” He stood protectively behind Bashir’s chair. 

Sloan’s mouth smiled but his eyes didn’t. “Now I’m sure who I’ve been playing cat and mouse with,” he said grimly. “You’re giving the doctor bad advice. You ought to let him serve his Federation.”

Bashir could see Ezri’s eyes moving from one antagonist to the other, taking it all in. He’d have to talk to her about it later. Garak was right—Sloan must be desperate now to conduct his business so publicly. “I’ve already refused your job, Sloan,” he said. “Are you ready to leave me in peace?”

“Not exactly,” Sloan said, showing more humor now. “I had some business on the station and I just thought I’d drop by and say hello. The job is still open, of course, and until I find someone to fill it, I’m afraid I’ll keep trying to convince you.” The emphasis he put on the last word left no doubt as to his meaning.

Garak moved around Bashir’s chair towards Sloan, who was standing next to the only empty chair at the table. “Excuse me, but I’d like to sit down.” Sloan didn’t move. “But how rude of me!” Garak exclaimed suddenly, attracting the notice of several passers‑by. “I haven’t greeted you properly yet, and, after all, you _are_ an old friend.”

Bashir’s appalled expression as he watched Garak extend a hand to Sloan showed that he thought his friend had taken leave of his senses. Unwillingly, with a look of distaste, Sloan took the hand and shook it. 

“There,” Garak said with satisfaction, stepping back to stand next to Bashir. “You’ve been marked with a tracer that won’t wear off for two weeks no matter what you do. As we speak it’s penetrating your skin and coursing through your bloodstream, which will lodge it in your body’s fat layer, if you’ll pardon my mentioning it. If you’re on the station, I’ll know it instantly, and I’ll be able to track you no matter where you go. I would say that a sneak attack is all but impossible now, wouldn’t you?” _The poison is dispatched. It’s done. Don’t look too triumphant yet. Not that there’s a cure, but if he knows for certain it was me, he might have time to set up his revenge before he dies. Best if he realizes not at all or too late. Or perhaps just a moment or two before...._

Sloan looked at his hand with horror. “But...then you’re marked with it, too,” he said stupidly. 

Reaching up his sleeve, Garak pulled off a sheer glove that hadn’t been visible a moment before. “Only my glove is marked,” he said. “I don’t think tracing it through the station’s recycling processor would do you much good.”

Sloan took a step towards Bashir as if to touch him, but Garak blocked his path. Their confrontation had now drawn more than a few curious glances, and several people stood staring openly. As Ezri stood and moved towards him, Sloan stepped back nervously.

“What’s going on here?” came a low‑pitched drawl. It was Odo, who looked distinctly annoyed to see Sloan on his Promenade.

“Not a thing,” Garak said, watching Sloan look around for his best way out. “It’s just a chance meeting of old friends who don’t expect to see each other again for quite some time.”

Always polite, Odo gestured to Sloan, inviting him to leave the replimat. Sloan brushed by him and stalked off down the Promenade without looking back.

“Nice company you keep, Garak,” Odo commented, moving after Sloan.

“Excuse me a moment,” Ezri said suddenly, as she walked swiftly in Odo’s wake. Catching up with him she said a few words in his ear and they both glanced at Bashir.

Bashir sat heavily and pushed his plate moodily away. “I can’t take this anymore,” he muttered without looking at Garak.

“Why so glum, doctor?” Garak asked expansively. “Sloan did exactly what I predicted he would do. He’s clearly so desperate to recruit you that he was willing to appear in person on the Promenade. He won’t dare to come back, believe me. This was his last attempt. He can’t afford to waste two weeks waiting for the tracer to wear off.” _In two hours he’ll be dead, my dear. You’ll never see him again._

“And how will I know when he’ll come back?” Bashir asked softly, watching Ezri as she ended her conversation with Odo and turned back towards himself. “How will I ever feel safe, even in my own quarters?”

“That’s something we’ll have to discuss later,” Garak said tactfully as Ezri reclaimed her chair. “Good afternoon, Counselor. I apologize for not greeting you properly a moment ago.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Ezri said sincerely, “you only had one glove.” 

“How kind of you to understand. I’m afraid I won’t be able to join you after all, doctor. My shipment has attracted some notice, and I have several fittings scheduled for this afternoon. Until tonight then?” Garak bowed his head to them both and retreated. Quizzically, Ezri watched him recede. Bashir awaited Ezri’s first words with trepidation.

“Garak’s being so formal. Does he really think that no one knows that you’re.... Well, you know what I mean.” At least she hadn’t yet mentioned Sloan.

“That we’re ‘doing it’?” Bashir said sarcastically. “I suppose everyone knows all about it, considering the kinds of looks I’ve been getting in the last few weeks. Sometimes I wonder why nothing on this station can stay private for more than twenty‑six hours. It’s not as if we told anybody.”

“Come on, Julian. You enjoy a bit of gossip yourself, you know.”

“I suppose I do,” he laughed. “It’s not easy being on the other side, is it? I’ll remember that.”

“So, can I be the first one to hear what’s up with Sloan? I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

Julian patted her hand where it lay on the table. “Sorry I snapped at you. I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately.” 

“Oh?” Ezri rested her elbows on the table and cupped her face in both hands.

“I might as well tell you,” Bashir said, sighing. “Garak doesn’t want anyone to know. He says it will be safer if he takes care of things himself. Actually, at this point I guess he figures they’re taken care of.”

Ezri cocked her head to one side. “And what do you think?”

Bashir told her.

* * * * *

When Bashir entered his quarters he was vaguely aware of the scent of good food. Garak came to greet him at the door, but, seeing his expression, didn’t touch him. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

Bashir slung his shoulder‑pack medikit down on a chair and slipped his arms around Garak’s neck. “It’s what happened today, at the replimat. I can’t live like this much longer. Sooner or later we’ll make one slip and he’ll get to me.”

Bashir felt Garak’s shoulders stiffen under his hands. “Julian, I’m only asking you to trust me for a little while longer. Sloan can’t move against us for at least the next two weeks.” Knowing Sloan had already died in agony, it was hard not to gloat, to share his triumph with his lover. Garak realized that it would take an effort to be patient with Bashir’s fear, but if he were careful, perhaps he could use it to tie the young Terran even closer to him.

“He can’t come on the station for the next two weeks,” Bashir corrected him, “but can’t he use a transporter?” 

“Not through my jammer.”

“Can’t he send someone else to abduct me?”

“He doesn’t work that way. Julian, you have to trust me.”

“I do trust you, Elim. It’s just that I’ll never feel safe again until I know that man is dead or in prison.” He caressed the Cardassian’s face. “I’m not just thinking of myself. What if he hurts you? He won’t be thrilled with what you’ve done, especially if you manage to discourage him this time. I can’t help feeling that he’ll be back.”

Garak met his gaze. Eventually, news of Sloan’s death would filter down through Star Fleet, and Sisko would make sure that Julian knew. “Julian, I can’t predict the future. It’s true that he sometimes carries a grudge.” His voice was thick, reluctant. Bashir could see some deep emotion there in the Cardassian’s eyes, some portent. He didn’t even know how to ask about it.

“Sloan treats the people he uses like pawns in a game, nothing more,” Bashir said nervously. “The man has no feelings. He’s brilliant, and from what I’ve seen, his plans are perfectly designed and executed. What defense do we really have against him? A few little devices and a lot of luck?”

“Oh, he has feelings. Never believe for a moment that he doesn’t have feelings.” Garak pulled out of his embrace and walked irritably across the room. He suddenly felt ill at ease, wishing to be done with talking about Sloan, thinking about Sloan, worrying about Sloan. He realized with annoyance that it would take a long time to erase that presence from his mind. “The difference is, he doesn’t act on his feelings. I have the impression that you’re trying to convince me of something, doctor, but I’m not entirely sure what it is.”

“Oh, stop calling me ‘doctor’ every time we disagree,” Bashir said, annoyed. “I think we need help with this, Elim. I don’t want to live the rest of my life under a cloud. I want to tell Sisko what’s going on. By now he knows that Sloan was on the station today. He’ll call me on the carpet first thing in the morning for keeping it from him, and I’m going to tell him, Elim.”

Garak was silent, thinking. It would do no harm to go to Sisko now that the trap was already sprung. In fact, it would distance Garak from any connection with Sloan’s fate. Sisko might suspect something later, but Garak had covered his tracks thoroughly. He even had a vial of tracer compound ready to prove his innocence—if it came to that—and no trace of that deadly poison could be found anywhere on the station. Garak had managed to defeat his greatest foe and no one would ever be the wiser. _Ah, well, as Enabran used to say, the most brilliant successes sometimes make one look like a failure._ Garak sighed. “Very well,” he said with mock reluctance, “I’ll go with you to see Sisko in the morning if it will make you feel better.” He took Bashir in his arms, stroking his back softly, and felt him relax. “Let’s put dinner off for a while,” Garak murmured. “I have a different sort of appetite.”

Bashir didn’t answer, but pressed his open mouth against Garak’s. They kissed slowly, undressing a little bit at a time, enjoying their familiar intimacy. When they were both naked, Garak lay with one muscular thigh between Bashir’s legs, rubbing up against him. “How do you want me?” he whispered gruffly. He loved this routine of theirs where Julian asked and he provided. It made him feel powerful, as powerful as he had felt shaking Sloan’s hand.

“Take me from behind,” Julian answered lustfully, saying the words to inflame his lover. “I want to feel you against my back and ass, I want to hear your breath in my ear and feel your hands on me. Garak!”

Garak sometimes teased, waiting to be asked twice, waiting for his lover to beg, but tonight he obeyed quickly, wanting to feel the intensity of their bond close over his senses and shut out the world. So he smoothed the slippery gel over his cock and slowly pushed inside, holding still for a moment as he always did, waiting for Julian to tell him when to move. Feeling Julian’s ass push against him, he began his rhythmic thrusts, nipping gently at the slim shoulders and whispering endearments. Julian’s eyes were closed and a sweet smile transformed his face. As Garak rose towards ecstasy, a surge of jubilation swelled through him. No longer was he a worthless exile, clinging to his petty life. He had crushed his enemy and taken possession of his prize. 

Bashir bent one knee and Garak slid a hand around his erection, increasing his rhythm. Their bodies labored together, hot and slick with sweat. Garak lost all sense of time passing, all urgency. Everything was right again. Enabran had acknowledged him. Sloan was gone. Soon, perhaps, he’d find a way to murder Dukat. He and Julian were together. Coming...together. Writhing under him, crying out his name, Bashir came in his hand, carrying Garak with him. Suspended in his pleasure, blind, helpless, nerveless, Garak heard the door to Bashir’s quarters hiss open.

As if in a dream he thought of the phaser on the bedside table, but his body, still trembling and twitching with the aftermath of pleasure, wouldn’t respond to his commands. When the two leather‑clad men were upon him, the phaser was already in Sloan’s hand. Taking him by the arms, they pulled him out of Bashir and held him standing between them. Bashir staggered to his feet and looked on, horrified.

Toying with the phaser, Sloan looked Garak up and down, noting the wild hair around his powerful shoulders, the desperate fury in his eyes, the erection that still jutted out towards him. He shook his head in disgust. “Just like a couple of animals,” he sneered.

When Garak lunged for him, Sloan fired the phaser once, hitting the Cardassian in the midsection. Garak doubled over but didn’t fall. The leather men pulled his arms behind him and fastened them with a restraint. He straightened slowly and glared again at Sloan.

“Leave him over there,” Sloan ordered, indicating the far corner of the room. “He is of no importance. Bring the doctor to me.” 

Without questioning their orders, the two let go of Garak and went after Bashir, who backed away from them until his shoulders hit the wall and then slid to the floor, trying to fend them off with both hands.

“Leave him alone,” Garak ordered, stepping towards them. Another phaser blast hit him in the stomach. He dropped to one knee and then rose, breathing hard, and took another step. The next blast lasted longer. He swayed, dropping to both knees, then falling on his side.

“Don’t hit him again,” Bashir pleaded as the men dragged him to Sloan. “His heart could stop.”

“So much the better,” Sloan laughed. “Do you suppose it would cause me much pain to be rid of him?” He looked at Bashir speculatively. “I wonder what sort of pain it would cause you, though, doctor,” he said. “I’ve been wondering what you two were doing in your quarters together all these nights. I had hoped to find that he was merely acting as your bodyguard, but I suppose, knowing him and Cardassians in general as I do, I should have guessed the truth. It’s you I’m surprised at, though, doctor. You always seemed a civilized man. I must say, my opinion of you has just fallen.”

Trying to laugh scornfully, Bashir made a choked, frightened sound. “That’s just as well, Sloan. Maybe you won’t consider me for your pet projects any more.”

“No, no, don’t worry about that. I’m afraid I can’t do without you. Your services are so important to me that I’ve gone to quite a bit of trouble to get them. I even underwent a very painful medical procedure this afternoon. It’s experimental, but you’re on the cutting edge of medicine—perhaps you’ve heard of it. In severe cases of poisoning, nanites are released into the bloodstream to nullify the harmful agent. You see, my blood was being destroyed by an almost unknown chemical compound developed by the Obsidian Order years ago but never used by them because they couldn’t find an antidote. I wonder how such a rare thing could have found its way onto Deep Space 9, because that’s where I must have picked it up.”

“Garak,” Bashir whispered, “you didn’t tell me you....”

“And, by the way,” Sloan continued, breaking off Bashir’s comment, “that leads me to ask if you’re ready to cooperate.”

“I’ll never be ready,” Bashir said simply. Garak, who had raised his head, let it drop back to the floor.

Sloan didn’t fail to see him. “Interesting, doctor. I might almost think that your Cardassian friend would like to advise you to do as I say. Is that so, Mr. Garak?” Garak didn’t even raise his eyes. Sloan looked at him a moment silently and then turned back to Bashir. “Well, then. If you aren’t ready to work with me, I suppose it’s time to try some more persuasion.” One of the leather men left Bashir’s side and got a bag they must have brought in with them. Sloan pulled out a large, blunt rod, thick enough that his hand barely closed around it. Out of one end, he snapped a long, flexible switch like the one he had used to beat Bashir the first time. Holding it by the thick handle, he put it in front of Bashir’s face. “What do you suppose this is, doctor?” he asked pleasantly. 

Bashir turned his head away. “I’m not playing games with you any more, Sloan.” he said wearily. 

“Very well,” Sloan said, all traces of humor gone from his voice. “Let’s get down to business then. Put him on the bed.”

Efficiently, the men laid down Bashir’s unresisting body. Garak struggled to rise, but his gut hurt like fire, his eyes were unfocused, and the ground seemed to spin under him. His heart beat painfully in his chest as he anticipated what they were about to do to Bashir. _It’s my fault, all my fault,_ he thought frantically. _He must have known what I was doing all the time. How else could he have found a cure for the poison? If only I had waited, if I’d stayed away from Julian until we’d dealt with Sloan. How could I let myself be distracted? To be caught like this, naked, helpless... I said I’d die for Julian, but I couldn’t protect him._

Sloan had instructed his assistants to kneel by the bed and hold Bashir’s arms. Like the first time, he was bent awkwardly over the end of the bed. Sloan waited a while, turning the handle of the switch over and over in his hand as if weighing it. Without warning, he snapped his wrist and an angry red welt appeared across Bashir’s ass. He gasped and choked, trying not to cry out.

“No!” Garak cried, trying and failing once again to scramble to his feet and falling to his knees. _How he’s enjoying my helplessness. He knows I’d like to get my hands around his throat so he’s fastened them behind me. Julian!_ “Take me instead,” he begged, knowing it was fruitless. “Let him go and beat me, kill me if you want.” He was kneeling to Sloan, naked and bound, begging for his lover’s life. Never had he been so utterly humiliated.

“Thank you for your offer, Mr. Garak,” Sloan said seriously, “but you forget, it’s not a life I’m after here—it’s an operative for one little job. One little job that would take Dr. Bashir from the station for just a few, short days.” Without changing his tone, he slashed the switch twice in succession across Bashir’s ass and back. The very tip nicked the skin in one small spot and a drop of blood trickled slowly down Bashir’s side. “You’re bleeding, doctor,” Sloan said with mock concern. “How careless of me. I only like to draw blood when I intend to.” He flicked his wrist, harder now. A line of blood appeared across Bashir’s ass. “Like that, for instance,” he said with satisfaction.

Bashir was shivering all over, moaning and writhing with the pain. Garak managed to shuffle forward a little on his knees. “Julian, say you’ll do it,” he said desperately.

“That’s right, doctor,” said Sloan, painting a few more welts across his ass. “Listen to him. It’s time to give in." 

“No,” said Bashir in a tremulous voice. “I can’t work for you again. I’d rather die. Leave me alone.”

Sloan took a step back and considered for a moment, and Garak wondered what he was thinking. Then, to his horror, Sloan turned the switch around and tapped the handle against Bashir’s back. “If I can’t convince you with a beating, maybe I can get to you another way,” he said. He showed the handle to Bashir. “Would you like that inside you? It’s bigger than your lover.” He said the last word derisively, making Garak growl softly in his throat. “Or perhaps that old expression may apply here—’too much of a good thing.’” Sloan slid the thing down Bashir’s cleft and pushed it slowly into his opening as Bashir cried out with pain and disbelief. “Halfway in,” Sloan announced cheerfully. “It looks as if you’ll be able to take it all. But then, of course, you’re a Cardassian’s whore, aren’t you?”

Garak was consumed with fury. He had been pushed to his limit, and felt nothing but the need to kill Julian’s tormentor. Staggering to his feet, he threw himself against Sloan and knocked him to the floor. Quickly releasing Bashir, one of the assistants fired his phaser at Garak and then dragged his inert body back to the corner. Sloan rose calmly, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves.

“Well, doctor, your lover seems to be resting for the moment,” he said, still brushing invisible dirt from black leather.

“You might have killed him,” Bashir said, choking with agony from his wounds and the rod that was still inside him. “Let me go to him. If you let me help him I’ll do your dirty job.”

“Oh, you’ll do my job. There was never any doubt of that,” said Sloan, smiling, “but it’s hard to stop a process that has gone so far. You should have spoken earlier, doctor. Now we have to see this through to the end.” He removed the rod abruptly from Bashir’s body, making him gasp with pain.

“Then let me—” 

“Not yet.” Wiping the rod unceremoniously on the sheet and collapsing it back to its original form, he dropped it back into the bag and pulled out another restraint. He handed it to the assistant holding Bashir. The man fastened Bashir’s hands behind his back and hoisted him to his feet. 

“Leave us until I summon you again,” Sloan said to his assistants. The two ghostly leather men disappeared silently. Bashir started to go to Garak, but Sloan’s hand jerking his restraint stopped him. “I said not yet,” Sloan repeated with cold anger.

“What are you going to do that you don’t want witnesses for, you bastard?” Bashir asked scornfully. “If you kill us there won’t be anyone left to do your job. Why are you still torturing us?”

“I want your friend Garak to have a pretty picture to wake up to,” Sloan replied arrogantly. With a quick jerk of his arm, he pulled Bashir around and forced him over the table. Bashir cried out and struggled, kicking at Sloan’s legs and trying to slide off the table. But Sloan bent Bashir’s arms back painfully. “Be still, doctor, or I’ll break your wrists.” Eyes closed, breathing hard, Bashir stopped his struggle. “That’s better,” Sloan said with exaggerated kindness. “Now...." 

Garak stirred, feeling that his limbs were weighed down with lead. He just wanted to sleep, or even to die, but there was a reason he had to open his eyes, had to get up—Julian. His vision was so blurred at first he wasn’t sure he had opened his eyes at all, but after a moment he could make out two figures on the other side of the room in the light, one dressed in white, one in black. No, one not dressed at all, one in black leather. He could hear Julian yelling hoarsely, groaning and cursing. Julian was being raped. Garak writhed towards them on his stomach, unable even to rise to his knees.

“Sloan,” Garak said with an effort, and the shattered voice sounded nothing like his own. “I’ll kill you. I swear I’ll kill you.”

Sloan laughed at the idle threat. “I used your whore while you were asleep,” he said venomously. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Garak fought the phaser‑induced lethargy. He rose unsteadily to his knees. The room seemed to spin around him as he struggled to rise, to get to Sloan. “You hypocrite,” he said in a hoarse whisper, his voice cracking with pain and fury, “if anyone is a whore, it’s you!” He fell to his belly again and struggled forward, nearly reaching his enemy.

“We were alone on that ship. You forced me.” Sloan didn’t meet Garak’s eyes.

Garak’s laugh sounded more like a groan. “Forced you! You begged me for it. You have a taste for degradation, Sloan. Spending all day treating Cardassians like dirt and all night with my cock up your ass. You—”

Just then, Garak saw Julian’s face. Lying across the table with his hands bound behind him and Sloan fucking him hard and steadily, the doctor stared at him, wide‑eyed, haggard, utterly humiliated. Without speaking, he turned his head away.

Sloan laughed. “Yes, Mr. Garak. You never were easily led, except by the cock.” His purpose accomplished, he withdrew without coming and zipped up his pants just as Garak reached him. He kicked Garak viciously in the throat. “I think you’ve fulfilled your purpose.” The two assistants materialized by his side. “Kill the Cardassian,” he ordered casually. “Take him in the other room and kill him.” 

“No!” Bashir yelled hoarsely, struggling to rise. “Sloan, believe me, if you kill him, you might as well kill me too.”

Sloan held up a hand to stop his assistants, who were dragging Garak away. “And,” he said slowly, “if I swear to keep him alive, will you cooperate with me?”

Bashir let his head drop heavily to the table. “Yes, damn you,” he said dully. “I’ll do whatever you ask. Just let Garak go.”

And all at once Garak realized, with a jolt worse than the phaser blasts, that all this charade, this torment and pain, this cat and mouse game, had been conducted to discover whether Bashir cared enough about him, whether he would act as sufficient insurance for Sloan’s little game. His body sagged against the men’s arms and they let him drop to his knees.

Releasing Bashir’s and then Garak’s restraints, Sloan dropped them back into the bag, which he carefully zipped up. “Heal yourselves, dress, gather your medical equipment,” he said sharply. “You have one hour. We will wait in the next room. Any attempt to resist will be severely punished. Mr. Garak, I’m afraid you will be taking a short ride with us.” Picking up Bashir’s uniform from the floor, he removed the communicator and slid it into a hidden pocket in the front of his leather suit. “And don’t try to reach your colleagues on the station. Your connection to the central computer has been temporarily severed.” Taking the blinking jammer off the side table, he dropped it to the floor and crushed it under his heel. Then, followed by his men, he walked out and let the door slide closed behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

In Garak’s experience, time was the only true healer for a phaser hit, but a triox shot made him feel less disoriented so that he was able to attend to Bashir’s wounds, running the medilyser over them and then smoothing on a layer of regen gel, although Bashir protested that Garak also needed attention. Garak refused to let Bashir do any more for him. The constant suffering of his body was nothing compared to the anguish in his heart, or to what he deserved.

They showered almost in silence, not knowing if they were under surveillance, and too disheartened to talk much anyway. After all they had gone through, Bashir would have to do Sloan’s dirty job anyway. Garak felt depressed, humiliated, weighed down by guilt. He didn’t have a plan in his head. He thought he could sleep for twelve hours straight, and he might as well—he had betrayed the one he cared for, the one who had trusted him. He was useless, old, past his prime. He wished Sloan had finished him. 

After they dressed, Garak couldn’t stand the silence any more, but when he tried to put his arms around Bashir, the doctor pushed them gently away. “No, Garak,” he whispered.

_Garak._ Julian had called him Garak, not Elim. So it was truly over. “I’m sorry, Julian,” Garak said in a choked voice, bowing his head. “I’ve failed you. I’m not worthy of you. But you have to understand what I said about Sloan. I didn’t mean... I never....”

“Don’t let’s talk about that now,” Julian said quietly, his eyes dull with pain. “I can’t bear it, Garak. I can’t bear to hear any more lies right now. We just have to do what he wants. We have to get through this and then he’ll let us go.” He turned away to pack his medical equipment.

Garak couldn’t answer. Through carelessness and pride he had lost what meant more to him than his life. His hopelessness was too deep for words.

Rather than tell Sloan they were ready, they sat disconsolately together waiting for his summons.

Once beamed aboard Sloan’s ship, Garak’s hopelessness grew. Instead of giving them regular quarters, Sloan had housed them in a cabin he had converted into a small interrogation room. Restraints dangled from holders on the walls, reminding them of their captivity. Sloan’s men had locked Garak into irons that dragged down his limbs and made it difficult to do anything but sleep. Every time he looked at Bashir’s haggard face, pale with dark circles under the eyes and the purple shadow of a bruise on one cheek, sleeping was all he wanted to do anyway. He spent most of his time dozing on his bunk. In contrast, Bashir didn’t seem to be able to keep still. He paced around the cabin they shared, checking the door repeatedly. Sitting down at the computer terminal he found out it was active.

“Garak, they’ve forgotten to turn this off,” he whispered. “Maybe we can send a message to the station.”

“If it’s active then Sloan intended it to be,” Garak said morosely. “There’s something he must want us to find out. Don’t bother. Make him tell us if he wants us to know.”

Bashir worked the keys for a few moments. He frowned. “It’s a dumb terminal. I can’t get into communications or change programming, but maybe I can at least find out where we’re going.”

“Are you sure you want to know?” Garak turned his face to the wall. He couldn’t bear to see Bashir’s hopes dashed yet again.

“Don’t be so hopeless. The more information we have, the better—oh, damn.” He took his hands off the keys as if they had bitten him.

Garak turned his head. “What happened? Did you find out?”

“Never mind,” Bashir said evasively. “It was a bad idea.”

Garak turned over and sat up. “Where are we going, doctor?” he asked irritably.

Bashir looked at him with wide, panicked eyes. “Cardassia,” he breathed.

For a full day and half of another they sat in their quarters, waiting. They were fed regularly by one of the leather men, but no one talked to them, and they never saw Sloan. All Bashir’s questions were met with silence. Garak didn’t ask any. He lay on the bunk feeling like a caged animal, wishing he could tear Sloan’s throat out or die in the attempt. Dying seemed more and more attractive to him now. He had failed Bashir, failed himself, let Sloan humiliate them both. And after Bashir had done Sloan’s job, it was unlikely that Sloan would allow Garak to survive. Bashir, of course, would return home, but some unfortunate accident would befall Garak. How ironic, to have been so clever all those lonely years and to die of stupidity when he had so much at stake.

Finally, when Garak had lost track of the hours, the door opened and Sloan came in. Garak opened his eyes briefly and closed them again. He felt rather than saw Sloan walk up to him and stand for a moment, watching. 

“Is he ill?” Sloan asked Bashir.

“Being hit four times with a phaser on heavy stun was hard on him. I told you.”

“Is that all? I’ve never known a little phaser fire to hurt a Cardassian. I think his pride is hurt,” he said, with enough accuracy that Garak winced inwardly. “Mr. Garak, come sit at the table with us. We need you.”

Hearing Sloan pull out a chair and sit down, Garak opened his eyes. Sloan and Bashir sat at the table, looking at him. A hint of excitement in Sloan’s eyes set off an answering spark of interest in Garak’s jaded brain. He rose slowly and shuffled to the table in his chains, planting the chain between his wrists loudly on the surface as he sat. Sloan laughed.

“You’ll soon be free of those, Mr. Garak. I hope you’ve gotten some rest?” 

Busy arranging his restraints, Garak didn’t reply for a moment. “What else was there to do?” he asked. “The ship’s entertainment seems shockingly deficient.”

“Good,” said Sloan, ignoring the jest. “Now, how well would you say you know your way around the Obsidian Order’s Citadel?”

“Do you ever ask a question you don’t know the answer to?” Garak asked with deliberate rudeness.

“Humor me,” Sloan persisted. “How well?”

“ _Very_ well,” said Garak. They stared at each other briefly.

“Have you ever been in the room where the data backups are stored?”

“The most heavily guarded room in the Citadel. Yes, I’ve been there.”

“I want you to steal some records for me. They’re very old, so they’re not likely to be missed anytime soon.”

“Do you have the processing numbers?” Garak asked skeptically.

“Of course,” Sloan answered.

“I won’t ask how you got them,” Garak said, letting some amusement creep into his tone, “but what happened to the operative who got them for you? How long ago did he die, and how painfully?”

Sloan’s fingers tapped impatiently on the tabletop. “He died soon after transmitting the data,” he said, “but he wasn’t as experienced as you are. You have a better chance.”

Garak laughed until his chains rattled. “Did he have a price on his head, too? Let me ask you something, Sloan. Is this all a plot for returning me to Cardassia and making my death look like an accident? Because if it is, why don’t you just end it here and send my body down to them? I don’t have any more patience for your games.”

During this exchange, Bashir had been looking back and forth between them uncomprehendingly. Now he interrupted angrily. “What about me, Sloan? I thought you had a job for me to do.”

Sloan spared him barely a glance. “You’ve done it, doctor, and you’ve done it well, as usual. Now be patient, and just remember Milton’s immortal line: “They also serve who only stand and wait.”

Bashir paled. “You wanted Garak all the time,” he said slowly. “You used me to get at Garak. But how did you know it would work? When you first came to my quarters Garak and I weren’t....”

Sloan waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t really have time for this, doctor, but I suppose I owe you an explanation. You may not be aware of it, but Garak had been watching you for some time. During a routine sweep of listening devices on the station I found his. It puzzled me, frankly, because he hadn’t planted it in ops, or in Sisko’s quarters, but in yours. Then I found that he was spending time observing you every night, even watching you get undressed and have private encounters, using you for his own sexual gratification, I’m sorry to say. And my plan was hatched.” 

Bashir turned in indignant surprise and saw in Garak’s face that Sloan’s words were true. “I thought you were just checking on me,” he said, faltering. “I didn’t think you...watched...when I....” He stopped and looked away. “I can’t believe you, Garak. You’ve never stopped lying to me.”

Garak closed his eyes. He could never make the doctor see how it had been, living all alone on the station, wanting him, lying there every night thinking of having what was just out of reach. Now he had indeed lost everything. For the sake of a bit of data, Sloan had stripped away everything he had: his pride, his reputation, the man he loved. Sloan had given and Sloan had taken away. And now Garak had no choice but to take this assignment. Who cared if Sloan’s whole purpose was to return him to the Cardassian authorities? He would happily walk into the jaws of hell if he could just get out of this room, away from those accusing eyes. His only regret was that he couldn’t see a way of taking Sloan with him. Sloan would live to fight another day, possibly to torment Julian. But Julian was no longer Garak’s lover. There was nothing Garak could do.

As Sloan briefed him, he felt once again on familiar ground. He was alert, analyzing every aspect of Sloan’s plan and assessing its feasibility, noting places where he would be in special danger if the authorities were lying in wait for him. But he was hollow, emptied out. He had nothing more to lose. It was almost a relief to be done with love—for that is what it had been—to bury all that and concentrate on the execution of a plan. If he could outwit the Obsidian Order, that would be good. If he could outmaneuver Sloan, that would be better. He listened carefully, scarcely conscious of Bashir, who sat turned away from them, thinking or listening.

“I select the beam‑down point,” Garak said.

Sloan gave him a hard look. “If you think it will help you,” he said, “agreed.”

* * * * * 

Garak dropped down in the darkness as soon as he had materialized. He was camouflaged but unarmed, dressed in skin‑tight black pants and a black t‑shirt. Sloan had given him Terran clothes, easily marking him as an intruder. He had insisted, over Sloan’s objections, in going barefoot. He knew how to feel his way. The stylus‑thin flashlight he carried clipped in the neck of his shirt was Sloan’s idea, too, but he doubted he’d need it.

These halls were dimly lit for a Terran, but a Cardassian could see well enough. He felt for the small computer attached to the back of his hand. If Sloan could be trusted at all, this was his key to any door in the Citadel. If Sloan could be trusted.... That was the question. If Sloan could be trusted, then why had it been so easy for Garak to beam down through the Citadel’s force fields? He sensed that they were waiting for him somewhere.

The beam-down point was near the data storage hall, but Garak turned and began to make his way in the opposite direction. He had to find a weapon. Without one, this was a suicide mission. And if he had a weapon, maybe he had a chance of killing Sloan with it later. 

He found his way to a maze of ancient tunnels that predated the Obsidian Order by thousands of years, cut in the living rock as hiding places and tombs by the very first inhabitants of this place. He walked for half a kilometer, always sure of where he was even after all this time. The processed air from the purification system smelled familiar and good. This had been his place, this citadel carved out of rock beneath the Cardassian capital city. He had grown up here, exploring and preparing for his future. Strange that he’d never even questioned that he would always be in the Obsidian Order, as long as he lived.

He met no one in the dim, narrow tunnels, nor had he expected to. The new generation of operatives and guards probably didn’t even know where most of these conduits led. As he approached his goal, he slowed down, listening carefully before he turned corners, wondering where they awaited him. Was Sloan toying with him or giving him a fighting chance? There was no way of telling, so he had no choice but to go ahead.

He reached a weapons storage room, the furthest one from the data hall he could think of. Feeling exposed, he walked out into the main corridor where the native rock was covered over with walls, floor, ceiling. For all appearances, it could have been an actual building, and he was sure that most of those who worked here thought of it that way, but he knew better. He had always prided himself on knowing the underside of things, the truth beneath the mask. With Sloan he had failed, but here on Cardassia he had a chance to turn the tables.

The decryption computer on his hand opened the door in less than a minute, but he didn’t know if he’d tripped an alarm. Working quickly, he buckled on a disruptor holster with a pouch to hold a couple of extra charges. The weapon felt natural in his hand. Now he was ready for his mission. Taking a last glance around, his eyes lit on an armored cabinet. The computer opened it for him, and he found what he had expected to see there—plastique, kilos and kilos of it. He dug out about a half a kilo—enough to lift the building off its foundations—and allowed himself a smile at the surplus of destructive power sitting here. Pulling up his t‑shirt, he molded the plastique against the skin of his belly. Responding to his body heat, it melted against him, forming a second skin under his shirt. He took a handful of detonators and slipped them into the waist of his pants. There was no use putting these in the holster pouch where Sloan could find them. He now had the perfect weapon—undetectable by transporter filter, practically invisible, inert unless set off by one specific sort of detonator. Maybe now he had the means to act against Sloan. 

But he still had to get out of here alive. He opened the door and stepped to one side, out of sight, and listened. He froze. They were there, he could sense them. He angled the disruptor around the door and fired a wide blast, which was greeted by groans and harsh screams. They wouldn’t dare to fire back—there were too many explosives in here. Even he wasn’t worth destroying half of the complex. Closing the door, he fired a focused disruptor beam at the edges of the armored ventilation duct. When it opened, he grabbed another disruptor and threw his used one down the tunnel before crawling quickly in the opposite direction. It was an old trick, but he bet they’d fall for it. The way he’d thrown the disruptor was the shortest way back to the data storage hall. Through the ventilation ducts he reached the old tunnels again and soon took enough turnings that he hoped his pursuers wouldn’t be able to follow him. He would take the long way around and perhaps he could make it. 

He had to run and crawl a long way through an impossible maze, and he had bloodied his feet and scraped his head long before he reached his goal, but he felt his old self now. He was an intelligent animal, not a person, running on instinct. Pain fueled him, focusing his mind, giving him power. There was nothing to tie him to this world but the thought of proving himself worthy by killing the one who had raped Bashir. He would redeem himself and die in the act. He spared no thought for his love—that would weaken his resolve. What had passed between them was locked away in a citadel of his mind. He would think of it once before he died, but not now, not right now.

Garak reached the corridor he wanted and climbed back into the ventilation ducts. The ducts ran parallel to the hall here, and the rooms on the other side were ventilated by a conduit too small for his body. He passed each grilled opening cautiously, looking for guards. When he saw the door to the data storage hall, alarm bells went off in his head. Why would it be unguarded? He passed it and went on to where the corridor ended and met another. They were there, a whole regiment of them—two dozen armed Jem’Hadar soldiers, waiting for him.

_Pigs_. So now the Citadel was guarded by Jem’Hadar. On top of that, it was obvious Sloan had betrayed him. He was flattered by the number of soldiers that had been sent after him, however, and decided to prove himself worthy of all that attention. Backing up, he passed his goal again and went around a corner. The trick was to be quiet and move swiftly. He was back in that old place where he knew what needed to be done and didn’t need to stop or calculate.

The grate slipped out easily, and he crawled carefully into the hall, leaving the grate flat on the floor. Using the computer, he opened a random door and fired a disruptor blast at the three Cardassians inside. They all went down. The door closed and he secured it quickly with the code as alarms blared and echoed down the corridor. He fired at it, discoloring the door. Let them think that he had gotten in that way, that he was still inside, holding hostages. Sprinting for the vent, he leaped in and had the grill back in place before the soldiers had turned the corner.

Crawling as fast as he could, he reached the data storage hall. The whole regiment had run to answer the alarm, leaving no one behind. He smiled, thinking how he would punish their stupidity if he were their commander. Using the computer, he unlocked the door and went in, taking care to secure it after him. He was alone and went swiftly about his work, looking for the data clips whose numbers he had memorized. There were five in all, but the system hadn’t changed since his time, and he found them all in a few minutes. On an impulse, knowing it was costing him precious seconds, he stuck one into a terminal. The name came up in icy blue letters: “Elim Garak.” It was his own file. Damn that Sloan, damn him. It was all a trap, all a play where he danced like a marionette for Sloan’s amusement before being shot down like a dog by the Cardassian troops. He pushed the beam‑up signal on the wrist computer. Nothing happened. But this room was heavily shielded. Perhaps if he could get outside into the corridor—where the troops were surely waiting for him by now—he could get through, or perhaps he had gotten through and there were no plans to beam him up. He had to try. Sloan’s mission was over, but Garak’s wasn’t.

Pinching a pea‑sized piece of bit of plastique from his chest, he wired it with a detonator and prepared to open the door. This was risky—he might blow himself up with the others—but he had no choice.

He opened the door and the flash of disruptor fire erupted obliquely through the room. Sticking the plastique to the end of the flashlight Sloan had so thoughtfully provided, he estimated where the soldiers must be and threw his missile out into the corridor. The detonator was on a five‑second timer, and he had just slipped behind a heavy desk when the floor rocked under him. He heard shouts, cries of pain and falling debris. There was disruptor fire, and he realized that some of the troops were firing on each other in a panic. The power went out. Good. He crawled into the corridor, where a horribly mutilated solider was dying right in front of the door. Smoke and darkness prevented him from seeing anyone else, though he could make out vague shapes moving back and forth. Pushing the dying Jem’Hadar soldier aside, he moved into the center of the corridor and pressed his signal again. Astonished and relieved, he felt the tingle of the transporter beam.

“Garak!”

The first thing he heard when he rematerialized was Bashir’s alarmed voice, and then Bashir’s fingers were on his arm, closing a long gash he hadn’t even known was there. Without looking at him, Garak pushed him aside and raised the disruptor. They were back in Sloan’s small interrogation room, the only room on the ship Garak and Bashir had been permitted to see. Sloan was standing a meter in front of him, lounging against the table appraising him like an owner who knows the value of his property. Garak fired his weapon point blank at Sloan’s belly. Nothing happened. Throwing it down, Garak lunged and grabbed Sloan by the wrists, jerking him forward.

Sloan didn’t resist. “You had to try, eh?” he said, laughing. “I expected no less. Where are the chips?”

Garak searched Sloan but found that he wasn’t armed. There didn’t seem to be much space to conceal anything in that sleek leather jumpsuit. As Garak’s hand patted down his thigh, Sloan laughed again. “Don’t you remember? I don’t allow weapons in my interrogation room. They’re all safely secured on another deck.”

Turning Sloan’s unresisting body, Garak locked his arm around the Terran’s throat before extracting the chips from his pouch and tossing them on the table. His voice was a low growl in Sloan’s ear. “You could have asked me to get anything for you, even strategic information about the Dominion. That’s why I find it curious that you chose to risk all our lives so you could see my records instead. Who do the other files belong to? Dead men?” 

“This mission had nothing to do with the chips,” Sloan acknowledged, a bit hoarse from the pressure against his throat. “The Obsidian Order wanted a crack at you, and I wanted to test you. They were confident they could kill you. They failed miserably. You’re everything I had remembered. I’m going to do us all a favor and tell them I beamed you up dead.”

Garak smiled slowly. “And will it be true, do you think?”

“Believe me, I’ll prove to them that it is. Only you and I—and the very discreet Dr. Bashir—will know that you’re still alive. But you can’t go back to the station, of course. You’re going to work for me.”

“I rather think not,” Garak said crisply.

Sloan took Garak’s forearm in both hands and tried to pull it off his throat. “This won’t get you anywhere. You’re not even armed. We’re on the same side now, and you don’t want to start our new relationship with a beating, do you?” He seemed comfortable making threats while Garak held him by the throat.

Bashir examined the torn flesh of Garak’s arm and shoulder with the medilyser. “Let me stop the bleeding, at least,” he said urgently, smoothing one hand over Garak’s upper arm, which made the Cardassian shudder. Sloan did not fail to feel it. He relaxed his leather‑clad body voluptuously against Garak’s.

“Of course, there might be certain compensations to working for me. There might be times when I let you feel like the master.” He reached back to stroke Garak’s thighs through the skin‑tight pants.

“You disgust me, Sloan,” Garak snarled, jerking his arm to make Sloan choke.

“No more than you disgust me,” Sloan whispered with difficulty. “That’s going to be the secret of our success.”

Bashir threw Sloan a look full of pity and contempt. “Let him go, Garak,” he said, still staring at Sloan. “He can’t force you to work for him. He has to let me get back to Deep Space Nine anyway, and once I’m there I’ll file a protest with Star Fleet Intelligence. We’ll—”

Garak cut him off impatiently. “Never mind, doctor. Soon none of it will matter.”

“What do you mean, Garak? Of course it will.”

“No.” Reaching between himself and Sloan, he quickly palmed a detonator out of his pants and set it in the stuff under his shirt without looking down. “Now,” he said briskly, “I have half a kilo of plastique on my body, and I’ve just attached a detonator.”

Bashir stared. “What are you going to do, Garak,” he asked angrily, “blow us all up?”

Garak still didn’t look at him. “Not you. Get me a restraint.”

Bashir obeyed, taking one off a hook on the wall and sliding it to him across the table. Garak forced Sloan face down over the table and fastened his hands behind him.

“Just like old times, eh, Garak?” Sloan’s voice was hoarse but still amused as he nudged his ass back against Garak. He grunted as Garak shoved him hard against the table with one knee.

“Don’t try to make him think it was like that between us,” Garak said softly, raising Sloan’s bound hands to strain his shoulders until he gasped.

“Stop, it, Garak!” Bashir cried, unheeded.

“Tell him how it was,” Garak persisted.

“It was—you hated me!” Sloan cried out sharply with the pain.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, Garak,” Bashir said urgently, struggling in vain to unclasp Garak’s iron grip from the restraint binding Sloan’s wrists.

“This is the last chance I’ll get to tell you anything,” Garak said. His voice had deepened with emotion. “I want you to know why I didn’t tell you about fucking this _creature_.” He twisted the restraint viciously, making Sloan yell, and then let go. “I used myself as a weapon against him. He hated me, but he needed what I could give him. It was part of the battle between us. As it turned out, he distracted me long enough to accomplish his mission. But with you....” The words of hatred had passed his lips easily, but now he hesitated. “When you think of me, I want you to remember: I didn’t always tell you the truth, but anything I did when we were together—I meant it. Everything I did with you was true.”

Still bent over the table, Sloan laughed. “And that’s as rare a confession as you’ll ever hear from this lying animal.”

Garak pulled Sloan roughly to his feet and spoke softly into his face. “I’d kill you now with my bare hands, but then I wouldn’t have the pleasure of killing you again with this.” He tapped the plastique on his stomach.

“Elim, don’t kill him at all,” Bashir pleaded. “Come with me.” He put both hands on Garak’s shoulder and tried to look into his face.

Garak wouldn’t meet his eyes, but kept his gaze fixed on his enemy. “Dr. Bashir—Julian—I couldn’t protect you from him, and for that alone I deserve to die. Go to an escape pod and leave this ship. Raise shields as soon as you can. Then Sloan and I will be off on our final journey.”

With his hands gripping Garak’s shoulder, Bashir paled. His voice faltered. “Garak, there’s another way. You don’t have to do this. It wasn’t your fault.”

“What other way?” Garak scoffed. “The only way to kill this devil is to blow him to hell in a million pieces, and I’m going with him just to make sure he gets there.” With one hand he pushed Bashir towards the door. “Go now. Do as I say.”

“But, Garak,” Bashir begged, “I’m sure the _Defiant_ is looking for us. All we have to do is signal them.”

Garak had never seen unfeigned surprise on Sloan’s face. It was an instructive experience. “How did the _Defiant_ know we were here?” Sloan asked stupidly.

“I told Ezri everything before we left. She was monitoring me—I’m sure she knew as soon as I left the station.”

“So much the better,” Garak said grimly. “See if you can find your communicator and raise them.” 

“I’m not going without you, Garak.” Garak moved back so that Bashir could open the chest flap of Sloan’s leather uniform and search through the flat pockets. “Here it is. Look, we can both go on the _Defiant_. Leave him. You and I have a future.”

_You and I have a future..._ Ruthlessly, Garak crushed the beginnings of hope trying to stir in his heart. “You have a future, doctor, not I.”

“Garak, listen...” Bashir began.

“No, you listen. However much our friendship meant to me, it’s finished. My incompetence ended it. My life is finished. Forget about me. Try to raise the _Defiant_.” Garak focused on the sight of his enemy helpless before him. He liked it.

Bashir tapped the badge on his chest. “Bashir to _Defiant_.”

There was a long silence broken finally by Sloan’s soft laughter. “You actually had me going there for a moment. Very good, doctor. No one has succeeded in doing that for a very long time.” He lifted his gaze to Garak’s face. “Take the restraint off me and I’ll forget that this happened. I’ll just chalk it up to a difficult transition from tailoring to a more refined employment.”

“You think it’s that easy, Sloan? You give an order and it’s done?” Garak’s hands dug into the leather at Sloan’s upper arms. “I’ve found your flaw at last. You have no defense against irrational behavior. You thought I’d want to live above all, but all I want at this moment is to die.”

“I wanted to detach you from everything on the station,” Sloan said slowly as if figuring it out by saying it. “I wanted you to have nothing to lose so you’d come and work for me. I didn’t predict...this. You’re right, Garak, I’ve failed. You’ve beaten me. We’re even. Now let’s leave it at that. Disarm the plastique and I’ll allow you and the doctor to take an escape pod. We’ll all live to fight another day.”

The ship shuddered briefly beneath their feet. In the silence that followed an unexpected voice rang out. “ _Defiant_ to Dr. Bashir. Can you read me now? We’re detecting your comm signal. Your ship is secured in our tractor beam. We’ve disabled your shields.”

“This is Bashir,” the doctor said with evident relief. “Captain, we’re ready to beam aboard, but we have a problem.”

“What’s that?” asked Sisko.

“Garak refuses to come with me. He’s wired himself with plastique and has decided to blow up this ship with everyone on board as soon as I leave.”

“Garak, can you hear me?” Sisko sounded exasperated. “There’s no need for anyone to die. We’re going to move against Sloan through channels. We’ve already begun to make our case to Star Fleet Intelligence.”

“How nice for you, Captain, but I am not under your command, and I have little faith in the power of Star Fleet Intelligence or anyone else to stop this man. As I’ve often heard Chief O’Brien say, ‘If you want a job done right, do it yourself.’” While he spoke, Garak looked into Sloan’s face as if drinking up his horrified disbelief.

“Garak, listen to me,” Sisko said angrily.

“No, Captain. I advise you to beam up Dr. Bashir. Signal me when he’s safe and then raise your shields.”

Bashir approached Garak and touched his arm tentatively. Oh, that touch, it spread through him the memory of their brief time together, but he mustn’t weaken now. “Elim,” Bashir said softly, “don’t leave me. I was angry before, but that doesn’t matter. I need you.” 

_He needs me...._ What sweet words to die on! “This is the only way I know how to avenge you, doctor,” Garak said, daring to glance into those dark, loving eyes. “I failed you, but after this you need not think of me with complete contempt. I’ll make sure that this man never torments you again.” He still looked at Sloan, whom he held tightly before him, but Bashir’s feather‑light touch on his arm seemed to weigh against him, push him down. “Go, now. Captain Sisko, beam him up.”

With quick fingers, Bashir took off his communicator and dropped it on the table.

“Captain, he’s removed his comm badge. Get a lock on him and beam him up now!”

“Or what?” Sloan whispered viciously. “You’ll blow him up, too?”

“We have a lock on you, doctor,” said Sisko. As the beam caught him Bashir clawed the air, his mouth caught in a silent “No!” while the transporter swallowed up his voice. 

The comm badge on the table resonated with Sisko’s angry words. “Garak,” said Sisko, “put the communicator on. There are three of you on that ship. Disarm the plastique and we’ll beam you aboard.”

“It’s armed and it’s staying that way,” said Garak. “The transporter filter can’t disarm plastique. Raise your shields.” 

“Not until you’re aboard.”

“Raise your shields!” With one finger he flicked up the switch. “I’m preparing to initiate the blast, Captain. Raise your shields and prepare to take evasive action—now.”

“Mr. O’Brien!” Sisko shouted.

Sloan suddenly stirred under his grip, and Garak realized with jubilation that he was trembling. “Mr. Garak, let’s talk this over, and perhaps we can come to some arrangement.”

Garak squeezed his hand tighter around Sloan’s arm and with great satisfaction felt him try to twist away. “The only arrangement we’re coming to is a final one. Your only passion is humiliation, so how can you understand what you did to me? He wanted me, Sloan, and you raped him before my eyes. You made him hate me. You pushed me so far that all I care about is killing you. I did many things in my time. I did the same job you do. Torture was my talent, but it was never my passion. I did what I had to do to protect Cardassia, but I didn’t destroy lives unless it was necessary. And, as for those like Dr. Bashir, I left his kind alone. But you used him, Sloan, you perverted what you were supposed to be protecting.” Garak laughed softly to see fear dawn at last in the grey eyes of his enemy. “But in the end, I betrayed him, too. Maybe I am as evil as you,” he said softly. “Maybe we both deserve to die.”

“Garak, don’t do it!” Sisko shouted. “Chief, we’re running out of time!”

“You’ve never stopped thinking about me, all these years,” Garak whispered, consumed by the righteousness of what he was about to do. “You didn’t just want me as your operative. You wanted to belong to me.” 

“No!” Sloan tried to pull away but Garak held him closer.

“Even now you want me. Even if it means your death.” 

“No.” Sloan’s voice was barely a whisper. He closed his eyes and tried to turn his face away. 

But Garak pulled him into a tight embrace so that between their bodies the detonator switch was pressed.

A golden sheet of blinding light dropped around him, roaring like a thousand waterfalls, and then it turned to flame, twisting and winding dizzy patterns before his eyes. He thought it strange that he didn’t feel the heat. _See you in hell, Sloan._ He thought he said the words, but he heard nothing but the raging fire, and then, mercifully, came the blackness he craved.


	5. Chapter 5

Light. Just a bit around the corner of the hall. They were waiting for him there, he was sure of it. He should take another way, turn quickly....

“Garak, can you hear me?” A gentle breeze seemed to brush his face. His face? He was dead, blown up in the explosion of half a kilo of plastique, with the ship, with Sloan. Ah, Sloan. If Garak was alive, where was Sloan?

Suddenly he could see. Perhaps he had opened his eyes. A blurry face hovered over his own. Julian’s face.

“You’re at Star Base 342. You’re going to be all right, Garak. We saved you.”

“Sloan...?” he whispered in a broken voice. If all that sacrifice had been for nothing....

“He’s dead, Garak. You killed him and both his men. You may have to stand trial, although Sisko is doing his best to make it a closed hearing.”

“But how—?” He couldn’t go on. The plastique had been wired to his own body. He himself was the epicenter of the blast. How had he survived?

Bashir understood. “O’Brien figured out how to beam you out of the plastique at the same moment you detonated it. It tore your flesh away—I had to use a force field to keep your insides from coming out, and we rushed you to the star base. We operated and saved you, but it was very close. You’ll have a long recovery.

 _A long recovery... Sloan was dead._ He closed his eyes. Even if he and Bashir went back to being friends, even if they were lunch companions for the rest of their lives, he would never chafe at that again. He’d be grateful just to be alive, and to hear that voice, to know that the man who had hounded them was gone. Garak relaxed back into oblivion. He didn’t care what happened next as long as Julian was there.

* * * * *

“Good morning, Garak,” Bashir said amiably.

“Doctor.” Garak nodded coldly. “Will I be allowed to leave the infirmary today, or will you find yet another pretext to keep me here?”

“If I do, it won’t be because your attitude has brightened up the atmosphere. My staff says that you’ve been hell to deal with even when I’m not here. And all this time I thought you were behaving that way just for me.” Garak glanced at him, startled by his bitterness. “Garak, you haven’t said a civil word to me in the two weeks you’ve spent here. Aside from the fact that I saved your life, don’t you think you....”

“That’s your job, doctor,” Garak interrupted rudely.

“Aside from the fact that I saved your life,” the doctor repeated angrily, “there’s the fact that we used to be friends—we even used to be lovers. What have I done to deserve to be treated like this?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? You astonish me, Garak.” Garak smiled coldly at Bashir’s jibe. He was becoming quite practiced at hurting the doctor without flinching, ruthlessly grinding away at his affection with rudeness and sarcasm. Soon the doctor would hate the sight of him, and that was how it should be. Garak’s own feelings were buried so deeply that, at moments like these, he felt nothing. Someday he would revisit that brief, lovely time when he couldn’t be tempted to try to recapture it.

“Well, doctor? May I leave? Or will you find some other excuse to keep me here? You know as well as I do that what passed between us was a mistake. You found out altogether too much about my past, and it put you in harm’s way. If you had any sense, you’d be grateful that I’m making it so easy for you to simply walk away.”

Bashir paled, stung by his words. “So easy, isn’t it, Garak, to simply walk away? Maybe for you it is. And you’ll get a chance to do it, because I’m releasing you as of now. Get your belongings from the locker and leave whenever you wish.” When Bashir finished, Garak had already levered himself off the table and stalked across the room. “If you have any problems, you know where to find me. And, Garak, there’s one thing you need to remember.” Bashir raised his voice authoritatively, so that Garak stopped and turned.

“Yes?”

“If you don’t show up in the holosuite for physical therapy every Tuesday and Thursday I’ll send Odo to arrest you.”

Garak inclined his head to indicate his acceptance of this small defeat and continued on his way. Staring after him, Bashir felt emptied out by disappointment. His efforts to win Garak back had exhausted him. Somehow Sloan still reached from beyond the grave to blight both their lives.

* * * * *

Early each morning Dr. Bashir turned one of Quark’s holosuites into a gym and physical therapy center. Often the doctor was only present electronically for the occasional bit of advice, but at least once a week he made it a point to show up in person to teach patients new routines, or work with badly injured patients. On this particular morning, three weeks after Sloan’s death, Dr. Bashir was busy showing Miles O’Brien how to prevent future dislocations of the shoulder.

“Look, Miles,” he was saying impatiently, “you’ve got to stop falling on it wrong. Watch this instructional film. Maybe they can explain it better than I did. Then practice on the rubber mat. I’ll be back to help you in a minute.”

“I don’t have time to watch a film,” Miles grumbled moodily. “Look I know I’ve dislocated my shoulder a few times, but surely....”

Bashir interrupted him. “A dozen times. I’ve seen your medical records. There’s nothing wrong with your joints. It’s just the way you fall. Come on, Miles, humor me.”

“All right,” Miles answered grudgingly.

On the other side of the room Garak listened impatiently while he tried to do the sit‑ups prescribed by Dr. Bashir to strengthen his regenerated stomach muscles. It was maddening. Not only did the sit‑ups hurt and make him pant and puff like a fool, but every time Dr. Bashir came over and gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder, he got aroused. When he was wearing his own clothing, it was easily concealed, but today Bashir had asked him to try a new kind of Terran exercise wear that would make it easier to see how his muscles were developing. To tell the truth, it hardly qualified as clothing at all, there was so little of it. He was wearing nothing but a tight pair of short pants made out of a very thin, clingy material and a brief shirt of the same fabric. It didn’t even have sleeves, so what good was it? To top it off, the whole thing was black, a color he preferred for camouflage in dark places, but which really didn’t become him in the least. Black against grey skin? Depressing!

“How many have you done?” asked a soft voice beside him. Bashir had squatted down next to the mat.

“Thirty‑five,” he panted.

“Good. Soon you should be able to do at least fifty without even feeling it. How many were you able to do before the...uh...accident?”

Garak watched Bashir’s blush rise and fade. “I have no idea. I’d never done anything so senseless in my life as a ‘sit‑up’.” He wondered if all of Bashir’s patients were as petulant as himself and Mr. O’Brien. It didn’t make for a very pleasant morning, but then these sit‑ups weren’t very pleasant either.

“Come on, Garak,” Bashir coaxed. “It’s for your own good. You have to strengthen those abdominal muscles if you’re going to make a full recovery.”

Garak sensed that the moment he dreaded had come. As Bashir spoke, he had brought his hand around Garak’s shoulder and stroked it unconsciously. Garak groaned as he sat up, knowing that his cock was sitting up, too, making an impressive bulge in the ridiculous pants.

Bashir looked into his face with concern. “Does it really hurt that much, Garak? Maybe I’ve been pushing you too hard, too fast. It’s just that I....” He glanced down.

He had seen it, and his eyes grew wide. He licked his lips. Garak did another sit‑up just to avoid looking at that beloved face looking at his erection. Pain was the only thing that kept him from feeling completely mortified. Bashir’s hand gripped his shoulder as his whisper touched Garak’s ear.

“I’ve missed you, too, you stubborn fool. I know you want to be in my bed as much as I want you there. Why don’t you come to me?” He let go abruptly. “I left that holonovel in my quarters, Garak,” he announced in a normal tone of voice. “Why don’t you walk there with me and we’ll get it.” He tossed a towel lightly over Garak’s midsection and walked to the dressing room. “I’ll bring these for you,” he announced carelessly, showing that he held Garak’s clothes as he walked out the door. “Carry on, Miles. Drop by the infirmary and let me know how it went later.”

How could Garak protest? The doctor was already halfway down the stairs that led to Quark’s. Trying to conceal his rage, he rose from the mat, holding the towel before him. When he walked out into the Promenade to find Bashir waiting for him, he felt that every passer‑by would know what he was trying to hide. His short, tight pants drew a few amused glances, and by the time they got to the Habitat Ring and then to Bashir’s quarters he was chafed into a fury. As the door slid closed behind them, Garak dropped the towel and took Bashir by the shoulders to pull the doctor tightly against him.

“Why did you make me wear these?” he growled. “Are you trying to make a fool of me?”

“Yes,” Bashir said unexpectedly, “I wanted everyone on the station to know how much you want me, and how you’ve been too stubborn and blind to come to my quarters and take me.” Reaching between them, he ran both hands up the bulge, making Garak flinch and groan. “Look, Garak—Elim—I was angry at you, but I thought we might be able to work things out. But you just decided it was over. You stopped responding to me when I tried to talk to you. All this time, when I’ve been caring for you, trying to heal you, you refused to talk to me.”

In his present state, Garak was beyond talking. All he wanted was to feel Bashir’s body under his hands again, to see his face while he was being fucked. He pulled Bashir against him for a long, rough kiss. Bashir’s hands stroked firmly down his back and grabbed his ass, pulling his hips forward. Garak didn’t wait to be asked twice. With a few quick motions, he stripped off the doctor’s uniform. When he reached for the waistband of his own pants, Bashir stopped his hands.

“I’ve been dreaming of seeing you with an erection in these shorts,” Bashir murmured. “Now I want to peel them off you.”

Kneeling, he nuzzled his face around the imposing bulge, biting at it through the fabric. Garak needed all his self‑control not to pounce upon Bashir and simply take what he needed. Hooking his fingers into the waistband, Bashir stripped the pants down slowly, following them with his tongue. When the shorts were around Garak’s knees, Bashir took Garak’s cock into his mouth. Garak swayed and nearly fell.

“Julian,” he breathed. “Julian, I need you now.” He knelt heavily, encumbered by the pants around his knees, and pushed Bashir down with his body, bringing his mouth down hard on Bashir’s. Too impatient to pause to remove the shorts, he was clumsy with his legs bound together.

“Let me take those off for you,” Bashir said teasingly. “Otherwise you’ll never get where you want to go.”

Garak rolled to one side and let Bashir pull the shorts down to his ankles—where he left them. Before Garak could turn over, Bashir was on him, straddling him, grabbing his erection from behind and starting to guide it into his opening.

“What about lubrication?” Garak asked, suddenly concerned.

Bashir smiled at him with more affection than anyone ever had before. “I’m ready for you,” he said. “Before Miles came in, I thought you and I might be alone this morning in the holosuite. I thought I’d surprise you during your situps. But when he came I had to think of a way to get you to my quarters.”

Garak slid inside, watching Bashir’s expression change from cocky to passionate. Somehow, no matter how often they did this, Bashir seemed shaken by how profoundly it affected him to be penetrated, to be touched so deep inside by his lover’s body. He began to talk softly, watching Garak watching him.

“You don’t know how I’ve missed you,” he murmured, filling himself and bearing down with all his weight, rubbing his ass shamelessly against Garak’s belly, “how I’ve longed to touch you when we’ve met by chance on the Promenade. You don’t know what I’ve fantasized.”

“What?” asked Garak, afraid to break the spell. “What have you fantasized?”

“I’ve wondered what it would be like,” began Bashir in that breathless voice he used for intimate confessions, “I’ve wondered what would happen if we met for lunch one day and I teased you, talking about sex, or about some other man, and you suddenly had all you could stand, and you....” He paused as if to be sure that his audience was as enraptured by his words as he was.

“What would I do?” Garak asked. “This?” Taking Bashir by the hips, he thrust into him roughly. Bashir closed his eyes and smiled.

“Yes, you’d be so frustrated you’d rip off my uniform and take me right there...”

“...in the replimat,” Garak breathed, visualizing it.

“Up against the wall next to the table where we’d been eating our lunch.” With a flash of alarm, Garak thought of their last encounter with Sloan, of how the Terran had slung Julian over a table and raped him. _I told Julian that Sloan had feelings, but I never wondered how he felt when I treated him the way I did. When we were alone on that runabout together, I used to like to slam his face down on the table and take him there. He never resisted, never once made me think he wanted something more. He asked to be degraded because he needed it, and because he wanted me to own him, but I didn’t really care. I needed him the way you need a drug. He wanted to treat Julian the way I treated him, and he wanted me to see it._

But things were never that way with Julian. Julian allowed himself to be vulnerable because he trusted Garak, not out of a need to be treated like dirt. This vision of being taken in the replimat had nothing to do with the rape. It expressed the pleasure Bashir took in Garak’s desire for him, in his loss of control. For Garak, the thought of having Julian in the replimat, of staking his claim so crudely and unmistakably in front of all those astonished Star Fleet eyes, held an extra power. Sloan had known that Garak’s need for possession, once unleashed, could overthrow all his native intelligence and caution, and now Julian knew it, too.

The force of Bashir’s vision overwhelmed him. He started breathing hard as a delicious, pulsating warmth spread through his groin to his chest. He stroked Bashir’s erection between his palms, wishing that he could take it into his mouth. When Bashir cried out his name, Garak let go, pouring out all the disillusionment and loneliness that had poisoned his life since he had killed Sloan. Bashir’s sweaty body sank down on Garak’s chest and he wrapped it in his arms.

 _I’m lucky to be alive,_ Garak thought sincerely.

Sometime later, Bashir stirred, raising his head from where it had rested on Garak’s chest, and looked into his eyes. Garak looked back at him, his expression unreadable.

“Why did you do it, Garak?” Bashir asked quietly. “Why did you want to die?”

Slowly, Garak lifted one hand to Bashir’s face and stroked his fingertips gently down one sculpted cheek. “He drove me to despair by letting me believe that I had won, that he was dead. He waited until I was at the peak of my triumph, and then he stripped it all away, one thing at a time. He took everything from me but my life. At moments like those, it is customary to die with one’s enemy, to accompany him to hell.”

Bashir mouth quirked into a small, painful smile. “That’s poetical, but not very practical. How do you think I would have felt without you?”

“Unencumbered. I suppose I was wrong about that.”

The smile faded. “Yes. How could you possibly think that?”

“You seemed quite disgusted when Sloan told you I’d been spying on you.”

They stared at each other for a moment. “I was.”

“Well, then? Why didn’t you let me go? Why have you gone to so much trouble to start things up again when you know they can’t last?”

Bashir frowned. “I don’t know that. I’ve had a long time to think about what you did. I would never do anything like that to anyone, but I’m not you. Spying is your way of life and has been since you were a child. You were afraid to tell me how you felt about me, so you fell back on the ways you knew best. You watched me without my knowing it, and then you lied to me about your plans for Sloan.”

Garak took the less thorny of the two paths. “For a short time I thought I could protect you, but I know now that I was deluded.”

“Listen, Garak,” Bashir began in an exasperated tone, “I’m not asking you to protect me, I’m asking you to be honest with me. If you could stop lying to me for one moment....”

“What if I can’t?” The question was asked quietly, with real curiosity.

“Then I don’t know.”

“Knowing the truth about me is dangerous, Julian, just as dangerous as being with me. At any time, someone from my past could come back and harm you. You are a way to me. My quiet and insignificant life on _Terok Nor_ almost allowed me to forget that some of my enemies have long memories.”

Bashir made an angry gesture with one hand. “That’s just a rationalization. And, anyway, I don’t....”

Garak used a fingertip to stop Bashir’s lips. “Don’t say you don’t care. It isn’t your place to care. It’s up to me to pay for my past.”

Bashir exhaled angrily. “And pay and pay for the rest of your life? When does it end, Garak?” Garak opened his mouth to protest. “Don’t interrupt me! I know you’ve done some things that would horrify me. I know that. I know there will be revelations and more nasty surprises along the way, and I know that I won’t like them.” He paused, but Garak didn’t contradict him. “Our lives are so unstable, Elim. I was already in danger from Sloan. And right now, with the war pitting your people against mine, who’s to say that I’m in any more danger with you than without you? I think we should take what pleasure we can get away with.”

Garak smiled, but his eyes remained expressionless. “How Cardassian of you.”

“Maybe I’ve changed, being with you. Maybe the whole experience with Sloan made me a little more willing to put my own desires first.”

“Because of me, Sloan raped you,” Garak said bluntly, “because my plan failed.”

Bashir smiled his twisted smile again. “His motives don’t mean anything to you, do they? A human would say, ‘because of the way I treated him,’ not ‘because I didn’t succeed in killing him.’ The idea that it’s right to dispose of your enemy comes so naturally to you.”

“Sloan raped you,” Garak said again with emphasis.

“I’ve dealt with that,” Bashir replied sharply.

“Have you?”

“No,” Bashir retorted explosively, “of course I haven’t. Not completely. Not yet.” He paused. “It helps that he’s dead,” he added quietly, glancing away.

“What if I’d told you at the beginning that I planned to kill him?”

“I would have stopped you,” Bashir replied promptly, looking him in the eyes.

“Why?”

Bashir shook his head. “It’s not that I didn’t _want_ him dead, Elim. I did. I knew I’d never be safe as long as he was alive. But it’s wrong to kill someone like that.”

“In self defense? I thought that was one of the few justifications for murder that humans recognized.”

“He wasn’t coming at me with a phaser.”

“But then, of course, human distinctions are so crude.”

“Damn it, Garak!” Bashir cried in frustration.

Garak smiled and finally let amusement show in his eyes. He eased both arms around Bashir’s shoulders and pulled him down for a kiss. When their lips parted he ran both hands through Bashir’s hair and kept them there, holding his head. “One should never undertake a contest that requires clear thinking when one’s passions are involved,” he said. “I ought to have learned that lesson years ago. Perhaps that proves that I am too infirm to continue in my old business. I should stay with tailoring.”

Bashir laughed, relaxing. “You _are_ a good tailor. A bit slow with alterations, though.”

“If this continues, I’ll be slower still.”

“There’s no ‘if’ about it.”

“I don’t get a choice?”

“Oh, stop it, Elim! Don’t you want to be with me?”

“Too much,” Garak admitted. “It’s a great weakness that nearly brought us both down.”

Bashir looked hurt. “Do you really believe that?”

“Yes. My lust, my short‑sightedness, my stupidity. All weaknesses.”

“Are you sure? Sloan was evil, but he wasn’t insane. He didn’t want you as an operative for your stupidity. And I rather enjoy your lust. As for your short‑sightedness....”

“We should be careful.”

“Everyone should be careful,” Bashir said happily, knowing that, for the moment, he had won. He straddled Garak’s body and nuzzled his face over the grey chest. “I know you don’t feel much when I do this, but I....” Garak gasped and struggled to sit up. Bashir moved back to let him. “What’s wrong?”

“I never felt much before, but just now....” He rubbed a grey nipple with two fingertips. “It’s almost painful, isn’t it?” he mused. “But the sensation is also highly arousing. When were you going to tell me about your modifications, doctor?”

Bashir got a medilyser from low table by the sofa. “The regen treatments are creating nerve endings where none were before. Damn it! The surgeon who repaired the epidermis must have used a human template. I told her....”

“Weren’t you there?” Garak asked sharply.

“I was there for the first twelve hours,” Bashir said with a rueful smile. “After that they made me leave. They had to get a security guard to take me away. I’m embarrassed to think of how I must have acted. I was frantic and almost hallucinating with exhaustion. God knows what I said to the man.”

“All that trouble over me,” Garak said, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, Elim,” Bashir said, putting the medilyser aside. “We can restore the nerve endings to their original condition. It will only take a few treatments, and I...”

“What?” Garak looked stunned. “This is a gift, Julian. Didn’t you just say we should take what pleasure we can get?” Taking one of Bashir’s hands in his own, he moved it to his nipple. Bashir pushed him gently back to the carpet and caressed the grey nub with the end of his tongue. Garak inhaled sharply and then tried to relax. As Julian had told him, the sensation was too intense, almost overwhelming. He had liked playing on Julian’s vulnerability in this area, but now he wasn’t sure he liked being this open to sensation.

 _Yet another way they can get to me,_ he thought, feeling his arousal build. _Eyelids, fingertips, genitals, and now this._ He watched Julian suckle him and then try a few experimental bites. Garak was unable to suppress a gasp that made Julian grin.

Garak waited to see how long he could hold out. By the time he rose up and pushed Bashir’s back to the floor, his movements were almost involuntary in their urgency. He lifted Bashir’s legs over his shoulders and entered him in one swift motion. Bashir seemed thrilled by his rough lust and continued to pull at Garak’s nipples provocatively.

 _No one can ever really belong to me,_ Garak thought, looking at Bashir’s intimate expression, eyes half closed and mouth relaxed in a voluptuous smile. _Not Sloan. Not even Julian. Thought I was in charge...we are so different...have to be careful...._

Julian closed his eyes and sighed as he came, pinching Garak’s nipples so hard that Garak cried out painfully as his body convulsed with pleasure. He took Julian’s hands away from his chest and held them to the floor on either side of his shoulders. “I believe you have thoroughly tested my new nerve endings, doctor,” he said with mock formality.

“Did I squeeze too hard?” Bashir purred. “I’m so sorry.” He shifted sensuously in Garak’s grip and Garak kissed him. “Did they really call you the Sorcerer?” he asked lazily.

Keeping a firm grip on Bashir’s wrists, Garak kissed a place on his neck and continued in a path across his shoulder. He paused. “Do you really want to know?”

Bashir closed his eyes and tilted back his head to encourage Garak to continue his attentions. “No,” he whispered.

Garak smiled. “Of course they did.”


End file.
